


Weight of the World (Kiss Me)

by Keshna13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Abby is Super Evil, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Heavy Angst, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Slow Burn Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Unresolved Tension, these idiots can't communicate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24040660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keshna13/pseuds/Keshna13
Summary: “Do I scare you?” she asked.Bellamy swallowed.Memories, unbidden, flashed across his vision. Clarke, nine days ago, wandering across the protruding rocks at the edge of the waterfall to pick some river moss, oblivious to the water gushing across her blue feet, to the fatal drop not three inches from her toes. Clarke, refusing to leave the operating table of the young soldier who had died, twice under her watch. Clarke, face red, screaming at him, eyes laser focused and mad.“Do I?” her voice soft now.He finally looked at her, found her searching eyes and locked onto them. The icy anchor that held him steady as much as it dragged him down.“Yes.”
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 119
Kudos: 904





	1. Bandage

**Author's Note:**

> Clarke and Bellamy are uneasy co-leaders of the Ark's foremost Med Unit. After four years of heavy combat on the front lines, Bellamy's cracking under her emotional chaos. 
> 
> This is very loosely based on the first couple of seasons, but is really an AU that takes place in a war zone between the Arkers and an unknown enemy. Bit of violence and mentions of sexual assault. Gore etc. - all things typical of a warzone. Also Clarke's a bit damaged.

Who would’ve thought they could still hurt each other after all these years?

Bellamy watched as Clarke stormed away from him, slamming the basket of bandages on the bench before she blew through the med tent flaps. His own personal hurricane.

The troops had arrived a week ago. They mostly kept to themselves. These weren’t the children of months ago. These soldiers had been fighting the interminable war for years and it showed. They existed quietly, energy spent on battle and nothing else. Bellamy waited for days when they first arrived, wondering when he’d get his first runner. But none of them attempted escape. They knew it was useless.

Empty eyes are soul sucking and they’d all felt it. Being around these lost people had been hard on the med unit. And perhaps that’s why he and Clarke had ended their hard fought for peace so spectacularly. They needed emotion, thrived on it. So much so that when they couldn’t tend to someone else, they had to create their own wounds to stitch up, just so they’d have something to do with their hands.

He remembered the first time he’d realised that Clarke practiced medicine on herself. He’d walked in on her stitching up a cut on her leg, had started with concern before he’d twigged that she had been the author of her own injury. She’d looked at him coolly, waiting for him to trail off in horror.

“We don’t have cadavers to practice on. And they don’t bleed as effectively.”

He should’ve walked away right then; reported her; even just kept a wide distance between them. But Bellamy had always walked the line. Meeting someone who actively crossed it, ostensibly for the sake of science, both intrigued and repulsed him.

So, he really had no one to blame but himself – though he reflected bitterly that this didn’t make him feel better. Her pragmatism kept other people wary – her laser focus and cutthroat attitude earned her few allies. And he couldn’t say they were friends. They trusted each other with their lives but considering that that was perhaps the least valuable of all their possessions, Bellamy sometimes wondered how much that meant.

And he had crossed the line today. He knew that. But he also knew that that didn’t nullify the truth.

‘You scare people Clarke.’

And he’d meant it. What he hadn’t meant was for her to get so hurt by it. They spoke to each other so truthfully, baldly, not ever bothering to sugar coat things that he had come to assume that her skin was made from stone. But this had hit a nerve, one he never imagined she would possess. That didn’t lift any blame from his shoulders, and he knew that. He knew that.

He wondered idly whether he should go after her, whether it was worth the bloodbath that would follow. She would put up a fight – would scratch and claw at him, reduce him to shreds. Clarke fought dirty, always had. When they first met, she had cloaked this within her strong-willed morality, preaching on high to the other meds. But four years of war, of being consistently abandoned by those who they had given everything to protect had stripped her of this power. He knew she fought now for her own survival, and precious else.

“What did you say to Clarke?” Octavia’s snarl as she bundled into the tent was barely concealed in her low tone and breaking from his reverie, he could feel her glare even before he met her eyes.

Octavia’s inexplicable attachment to Clarke annoyed him. Constantly. Especially because O seemed to have appointed herself as Clarke’s personal protector, abandoning any sibling allegiance in the process. As far as he could make out, Clarke didn’t return that loyalty, and if he was honest that pissed him off more than anything else. If he had to do without O, then Clarke should at least realise how lucky she was.

“The truth, O.” Sighing, he picked up the basket that Clarke had left behind and started sorting through the bandages, hunkering down on one of the stools.

“You can’t say shit to Clarke and then claim it’s the truth, for God’s sake Bellamy learn some tact.”

“She needs to stop it O, you know this. They come here to recuperate not to be confronted by Death’s living representative on earth.”

O snorted, folding her arms and managing to look spectacularly unimpressed and disgusted at the same time.

“She’s only like that because of you, Bellamy.” Bellamy nearly dropped the bandage he was holding.

“Excuse me? I know you two manage to blame everything else on me, but I’m not about to take responsibility for her fucking hormones. The rest of us have to live with her. She’s a goddamn hazard, O.”

“You’re so stupid Bellamy, I swear to god.”

Bellamy stood abruptly, towering over his little sister, who characteristically met this perceived challenge by resting her hand gently on the hunting knife at her belt.

“Seriously O? You’re going to run me through because I stood up?” He couldn’t pretend this didn’t sting. To be ignored is one thing, to be treated as a threat was entirely another.

Octavia at least had the grace to let a glance of shame relax her hand. He took this as an apology because he knew she wasn’t going to utter one.

“Clarke is a grown-up and she can sort her own shit out. She doesn’t need you raising your hackles every time someone expects her to act her age.” He pushed past O, feeling stormy. Far from elevating his mood, his sister had managed to do what sisters had done since the beginning of time – rile him the fuck up.

* * *

He found Clarke by the river, as he knew he would.

She was washing something in the fast water at the top of the stream, before it cascaded further down the rocks and crested into a waterfall. Climbing closer he realised she was working the wool fibre she’d managed to claim from the allied Grounders. Methodically rubbing it under water and then pulling it out to stretch over two sticks driven into the wet mud by the shore. She was never idle.

“They gave you good wool.” He tried for a gentle tone, cool.

She turned her head, didn’t pretend not to have heard him approach.

“And why wouldn’t they? I gave them enough in return.” Her eyes sliced through him, voice hostile and tight. She was still angry then.

Her hair was fronded at the ends, her characteristic braids fluffy around her scalp from where she’d slept in them the night before. As the sun broke over the treetops and struck them, he was disconcertingly reminded of the paintings in the capital, the women bending over children or animals or fallen angels, with the brightest of lights illuminating a halo around their heads. Her hair, dirty blonde on a good day, shone gold. Irritated, he turned away, examining the reassuringly turgid mud at his boots. She returned to her wool.

“What will you make?” He tried again, still in that tone. He knew it was a clumsy attempt at conversation, one she would easily see through.

“A cloak. For winter.” He lifted his head, trying to read her voice. She had relaxed slightly, maybe reassured that he hadn’t bitten her head off. He reflected grudgingly that perhaps O had had a point.

He searched the glade, watching the fish dart through the clear water, leaves shivering on the trees from the last of the rain drying in the sunny breeze. Searched for something to look at but her. She was still facing away from him, shoulders rounded as she crouched in the mud, squelching slightly as she shifted position to take the first load of wool from the sticks and balance it over her thigh as she started on the second, dry pile, heaped on a flat stone by the bank.

He watched the dark stain of water wander through her thin pants. It was not past eight o’clock yet, the breeze chilly despite the light. Wordlessly he stepped forward and, exercising extreme care not to touch any part of her, lifted the wet wool from her thigh and retreated quickly.

“I can hang it here.” He grabbed his axe from his belt loop, hacked off the leaves from a small branch protruding from the mountain ash that some of the younger soldiers used to dive from in the summer months. She watched him, wordlessly.

He turned, hesitated, caught in her stare.

“You meant it, didn’t you?”

He glanced down quickly at his hands, unwilling to meet her eyes. His hands, capable of killing a man, of bringing him back to life, of mortally wounding this woman in front of him. He didn’t need his hands to do that though – his mouth, his mind was enough.

“Do I scare you?” He swallowed.

Memories, unbidden, flashed across his vision. Clarke, nine days ago, wandering across the protruding rocks at the edge of the waterfall to pick some river moss, oblivious to the water gushing across her blue feet, to the fatal drop not three inches from her toes. Clarke, refusing to leave the operating table of the young soldier who had died, twice under her watch – Clarke, plunging her hand into his chest and forcing his heart to keep beating until his body kicked back in. Clarke, calmly amputating feet, arms, legs, sucking poison from wounds with her own mouth. Clarke throttling a chicken, scaling a fish, sorting through the intestines of a deer that had caught in the fence. One she’d insisted on killing, rather than letting go. Clarke, personally castrating one of the medics she’d caught raping a young grounder girl, before turning him out to the wolves; yet the next day, ordering the med unit to cease ties with the girl’s village, suspend medical supplies. Clarke, dispatching enemy Grounders with her rifle, refusing to stand down until the last one had been confirmed dead by her hand, and sometimes her knife. Clarke, face red, screaming at him, eyes laser focused and mad.

“Do I?” her voice soft now. She’d ceased washing the wool, had left her hands in the freezing water, waiting for his reply.

He finally looked at her, found her searching eyes and locked onto them. The icy anchor that held him steady as much as it dragged him down.

“Yes.”

Her eyes flickered, but she didn’t miss a beat.

“Why?”

He was pinned to the spot, the words weighing him down, her attention holding him by the throat.

“I don’t know, Clar-“ she stood suddenly, fluidly, water sluicing down her hands. He took half a step back, words caught in his throat.

“You do know. You do know why.”

His back hit the mountain ash. Mouth dry. Head thumping, blood rushing.

“Clarke…”

“If you say something like that to someone, and then deny them the opportunity to grow from their mistakes, you’re as bad as everyone else Bellamy.” Her face was flushing slightly, high colour in her cheeks, eyes shining with fervour or tears he didn’t know.

He stepped away from the tree, dropped his shoulders, feeling the familiar terrain beneath his fingers. They were gearing up, both of them. He could see the slant of her eyes begin to crease, her eyebrows beginning to lower together. He knew, instinctively, that whatever words would leave his mouth now, they would be remembered, mulled over, brought up for years to come.

A breath, two. He plunged.

“You scare me. Because I can’t predict you. I don’t know how to justify your decisions. Because I know they’re right. But they’re not decisions that any normal person would make.”

She was still, regarding him with those icy eyes, letting nothing escape, giving him no hints.

“You’re brutal Clarke. You…you have no-“ he stopped himself, breathed out, flexed his fingers.

“If you have morals, if you have a guiding-I don’t know, a guiding compass? I don’t know what that is, I can’t find it – I can’t,” A step forward, finding his way now. She still hadn’t moved. “I don’t know where you get your strength or your conviction from. It’s been four years, and God, I thought you were the Ark’s model when you came. Because everything you said was in line with what they wanted. So I thought fine. That’s Clarke, I know what she’ll do because it’s whatever the Ark wants.”

Her silence was unnerving, but she wasn’t stopping him. Aware that this opportunity to speak uninterrupted was rare he soldiered on, feeling heavier with every word he uttered.

“But after you went to Mount Weather you stopped following them, you stopped listening to them. This camp has been yours for years now, and every decision you make – I can’t predict it. I don’t know why you do the things you do, for what? You scare the soldiers because they know that they could live or die by your hand and no one would question it – you scare the medics because they know that the Ark backs your every move – somehow, somehow you’ve convinced them to let you rule here.”

She was breathing a little hard now, eyes grey as flint.

“Do you see why we’re scared of you? You make no friends; you mark no loyalty to anyone but yourself. You’re unpredictable.”

She had taken a step backwards, and he was suddenly aware that he had no more words left, that he was close to hurting her again. But still he continued – he knew the consequences, but his mouth worked faster than his brain.

“You scare me because I want to see the good in you. But you make it so hard to find, Clarke.”

She jerked, physically jerked away from him. He looked down at his feet, up at her face again, mouth working. Her skin was ashen, all traces of colour gone, and she was far from the soft golden light of minutes earlier. Her eyes were dark smudges in her face, paling in sharp relief from the spidery veins that rose through her neck with her short breaths.

He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t shocked by her appearance, couldn’t pretend that he had meant to hurt her as badly as she looked. He tried to step towards her but she moved immediately, backing straight into the stream, not even reacting to the icy water washing over her boots and through her legs.

“Leave, Bellamy.”

Her voice was soft, deceptively soft. She wouldn’t stop looking at him. Her face was too sharp – the beauty she sometimes revealed in soft moments a distant memory to this lost, empty creature in front of him.

He was unnerved by her, suddenly wished to be anywhere but here, and put up no fight. He turned and walked away, quickly broadening his steps and crashing through the undergrowth, uncaring of who could hear him.

He could feel her stare, and resisted the urge to look back, her expression etched into his brain.


	2. Spit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it wasn't already glaringly obvious I'd like to put it out there that I have absolutely no medical knowledge and I'm doing minimal research lol. So basically my tip for enjoying this story is to suspend your disbelief and just go along with all of these highly technical and well-developed medical operations. Apologies in advance.

They didn’t speak for weeks.

Clarke not only ignored him, she actively avoided him.

The soldiers left at the end of the second week. The Dropship compound would have three weeks of rest to replenish supplies and then receive the next batch of soldiers, probably greenies, who would need the various drugs and strength enhancing potions to make it to the front.

Clarke had shown no sign of reaction to his words. He couldn’t help but think this hypocritical considering she had asked him to tell her what he thought for the sake of her improvement. And yet he didn’t even know what he wanted her to change. He did know, however, that she was changing for the worst. 

He hadn’t realised it was possible for her to become more savage, more removed from humanity.

By the end of the month winter had nearly reached them. He’d seen no sign of the woollen cloak she had been making at the river. She was dressed exactly as she had been for the last four months of summer and though she exhibited outward indifference to the weather, her body was beginning to show weakness. Her lips grew dry and chapped, skin pale and dull. She hovered over a constant state of near hypothermia and insisted on going to the river every day to swim, despite the small islands of ice beginning to form at the edge of the bank.

She performed two breathtaking surgeries on the two soldiers who had been left behind with catastrophic injuries, but Bellamy would have hit her had Octavia not held him back during the second surgery when she deemed it necessary to remove the soldier’s skin from the back of his thigh and attempt to reattach it to the burn on his stomach. When Octavia had told him that it had worked, that the skin had taken, it had hardly alleviated his concern that Clarke had taken leave of her senses.

On the third week she hacked up the bodies of two Grounders from hostile tribes that had been trying to scale the compound and had been shot by the lookout post for their efforts. Bellamy had walked into the basement in the middle of this gruesome process and was met by shards of skull cracked open on the table and Clarke, wispy hair tied into a knob at her neck brandishing a bloody hammer.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

She glanced up only at his voice and looked away immediately.

“Nothing.”

As she said this, she raised the hammer and a stake and actually made to chip at the opened skull on the table.

Bellamy surged forward, knocking the hammer from her hand and seizing her wrist. He ripped the mask from her face.

“Have you gone _completely_ insane?” He glanced down at the grounder’s body and regretted it immediately.

“Let go of me Bellamy.” Her voice was low, dangerous.

“If you think I’m just going to let you cut up a body, smash out a skull, just because you’re angry that they tried to get in here….”

She wrenched her wrist from his grasp, took a giant step away from him.

“You seriously think I’m that awful?”

He snarled at her. “You’ve got a dead body on your table and you’re literally about to smash in its head. How could I not think that?”

He took a half step towards her, deliberately crowding her. “Is this some kind of twisted revenge fantasy?”

Her shoulders sagged, arms at her sides, tears alarmingly trying to spill from her eyes.

“How _dare_ you?”

Clarke dropped the stake from her other hand, tore at her smock and stormed out of the room.

Bellamy was half a beat behind her, racing after her retreating back with an anger that surprised him.

“You need to stop playing God Clarke. You asked me to tell you what I thought because you needed to change and so I told you and you haven’t changed, far _fucking_ from it.”

They broke the surface, striding across the dead grass. He reached her, made to grab her arm again but she pulled it out of his grasp so violently she nearly stumbled.

She reached the gates and almost ran through them, walking so fast it was all he could do to keep up with her.

“Slow down.” He was huffing now, but she didn’t stop, striding into the trees, slipping and falling frequently but pulling herself up, up and out of his reach.

“Go away you _bastard._ ” He could hear the tears thickening her voice, but he was too far gone to remedy his course. The flash of the grounders body on the table kept him going, imbuing him with purpose beyond disappointment, beyond confusion, flooding him with anger so intense it felt divine.

She reached the river before he did, dropping to her knees in the frozen mud, hammering at the ice crusting the water by the bank and plunging her hands in the stream running underneath. The grounders blood washed from her fingers, and Bellamy could see the water running red underneath the ice.

“You’re a danger to yourself and others. How can they trust you to run this camp when you’re so clearly insane…”

He whirled around, braced against a tree, fighting against the base desire he could feel coursing through his veins to take her and make her understand.

“And why do you care Bellamy?” her voice was wretched, caught between a cry and a moan and if he had been thinking clearly he would have recognised the sound of a wounded animal.

“BECAUSE I’M CLEARLY THE ONLY PERSON WHO CARES ENOUGH ABOUT THE WELFARE OF THIS CAMP TO KEEP YOU IN CHECK!” He exploded, turning abruptly to face her, still kneeling in the mud, bent over double, face hidden in her hair which had come out of its knot.

She said nothing, and above his own rushed breathing he realised that she was sobbing quietly. Fury ripped through him, activating his muscles and before he knew what he was doing he had grabbed her shoulders and was dragging her away from the river, hands around her waist as she struggled, kicking out at him. He slammed her against the mountain ash, ignoring the strangled snarl she let out as he pushed her chest into the trunk. Ignoring too, though this was harder, his own response to it.

“You made me tell you why people are scared of you.” He leaned forward, brought his face down to her ear, hissed his words. “You made me tell you because you said you’d fix your mistakes. You’re savage. Now look at you. Trying to get out of this by crying. You _coward_.”

She struggled against him, bucking, trying to kick out at his shins. Bellamy pushed her further into the tree, holding her arms behind her back and leaning away to avoid her legs.

Clarke shrieked in frustration, and he thought he’d never seen someone so animalistic.

“You blame everyone but yourself.” She grunted, stilling slightly as she focused on speaking.

“I didn’t change because you gave me no reason to change. You think I made mistakes but I know I made the right choices. I regret _nothing_.”

He loosened his arms slightly and she took the opportunity to swing around and face him. In an instant he pushed his forearm into her stomach, spreading his other hand across her collarbones, close enough to her neck for her to feel how easily he could choke her.

“Who are you to define what is good and what is bad Bellamy? You accuse me of playing God when you assume jury and executioner and don’t bother ever trying to find out why I do what I do before you condemn me for my actions.”

Their faces were so close now that he could feel the heat of her breath on his skin, could count the faint freckles dusting her nose, see the crusted blood clotting above her eyebrow where she’d run through a tree branch earlier.

“What could you possibly say that would convince me that you are right and good Clarke?” he snarled, staring her down. Her eyes flicked away from his. “If I don’t bother to find out why you’re doing the things you do you never bother to tell me. You’re as much to blame as me.”

She tried to surge forward again, face contorted.

“I do everything for my own reasons and I know, I _know_ that they are the right reasons.”

He fought an overwhelming desire to tighten his fingers around her neck, to make her submit to him, make her bend to his will.

She got her hands in between them and shoved him off her, showing surprising strength for the slip of a girl she’d become.

“What do you want from me Bellamy? _What_ _do you want?_ ”

She leaned against the tree, heaving, looking up at him through slitted eyes. He could see her hands clench and unclench. Her face was bright, eyes bright, too bright. It burned him to look at her. His eyes dropped from her gaze, found her lips, pale and chapped, wet from breath. There was dried blood at the corners. He could see where she’d pulled the skin. His hands followed his gaze, almost without will. He rested a thumb on her bottom lip, felt her hot breath on his fingers. She stilled immediately, ceasing even to breathe. He let the weight of his hand drag down her bottom lip, could see her teeth shining, feel their sharp edges through the calluses on his skin.

They were captured in this moment together, neither of them willing to break it. Bellamy wondered idly whether she’d fuck like she fought. He froze, hating himself for the thought.

Warm pressure on his thumb brought him back to the moment in a rush and he focused on Clarke’s tongue, which was inexplicably resting against his skin. He jerked his head up, found her eyes, wide, pupils blown out. She’d started breathing again, fast, quick, inhaling twice for every exhale. 

He pulled his thumb down further and she followed his lead, letting her mouth fall open. His mind had ceased to exist, he wasn’t thinking anymore. He was abiding only by the beat of his heart and the pressure that was building up inside him, pressure that demanded a release. He dragged two fingers across her chin and slowly, so slowly entered her mouth. Her eyes hadn’t left his and he watched her, feeling almost curious, wondering when she would end this, hoping she wouldn’t. He felt a thrill of trepidation run through him as his fingers snagged the top of her teeth. She could easily bite them off. He’d seen her do worse.

It felt like a challenge. Bellamy could feel her egging him on, could feel his own desire to dominate her, make her know he was in charge. He paused, his desire for her and his anger for her battling each other. Then, Clarke jerked her hips forward, pressed herself into him, and he felt her warmth and his response. He met her eyes again, looking up at him, wide eyes, mouth spread wide for him.

He forced his fingers deeper, hit the back of her throat and she gagged around him, convulsing, but refusing to look away from him. He stepped closer to her, completely closing any gap between them, feeling her whole body pressed into his. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, ran down the sides of her face and into her hair. He could feel her tongue flutter around his fingers.

He was hard against her hip. Harder than he’d even been in his life. He’d never felt this burn to dominate before, never felt the need to physically, mentally, consume his partners, never felt the need to make them obey him. But Clarke…he wanted to brand her. Bellamy wanted her – all of her.

It scared him.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, replacing them around her neck, the sheen of her spit trailing down her chin. She was docile under him, waiting for him. The thought gave him such a powerful rush that he had to close his eyes briefly to avoid passing out.

She was watching him, silently, mouth still slightly open, making no move to wipe her face.

“Why did you let me do that?” He was whispering, the wind through the trees louder than his voice.

“Because you wanted to.” Her words soaked through his skin, choking him, cloaking him in shame, lust, panic. Why did he want to? How did she know he wanted to? Why did she not push him away?

Her eyes were unwavering and he felt, through the storm of conflicting emotions that was swirling in his gut, the spiral of guilt and shame solidify in his throat. What was wrong with him? Why did he get pleasure from her pain, from dominating her?

He pulled his hands from her, wrenched himself away, staggered as if the weight of her gaze was physical.

“Bellamy-” Her voice was gentle and he hated her for it.

“Don’t.” The word ripped itself from his lips, and he felt a roll of nausea threaten him. He cast his eyes to the sky, searching for something to fill his vision, to make him forget what he’d just done.

Clarke had moved away from the tree, was stepping towards him. He knew where she was without even looking – so attuned to her that he could feel her through the air.

She laid a hand on his arm, tentative, soft, everything he didn’t want, everything that would poison him. He jerked away from her.

“ _Don’t touch me.”_ He finally looked at her, saw her flinch from the venom in his voice, her hand drop weakly to her side.

Her eyes flickered and slid away from him. She bit her lip so hard the skin turned white.

It was like the storms of the hills rolling in, white-grey clouds eating up blue sky – he could see her face begin to close, her eyes begin to dull. He watched her return to the Clarke he knew, and he despised himself for welcoming it. For welcoming the cold, savage animal.

He didn’t stop her as she walked away from him. Didn’t want to. But he could feel it – the shift in whatever it was that they had. He’d crossed some sort of invisible line and she’d let him.

They’d broken something.


	3. Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've reached the sixth circle of procrastination hell and I'm writing this instead of finishing my exams lol. Enjoy.

The sky was grey. A flat grey, impenetrable, indistinguishable from the walls of the operating theatre. Clarke sometimes felt like she was inside the world’s operating theatre, some unknown surgeon slicing her open and draping her intestines across the treetops for the crows.

The weight on her shoulders was nothing new, the empty numbness had made its home in her gut years ago. She was burning slowly, and she couldn’t figure out how to scream. Abby had made it clear to her that Clarke wouldn’t be welcome back if she left. By answering Commander Kane’s recruitment campaign, Clarke had known that Abby would be angry, furious even, but her mother’s violent outburst was unexpected. For the first time in years she’d actually looked at her daughter, addressed her, cursed her. It was the most alive Clarke had felt since her father had died.

The trees had lost their leaves weeks ago and she was vulnerable to the drenching rain and icy winds that whipped through the camp proper daily, but Clarke refused Octavia’s repeated entreaties to abandon her tent and move inside the bunker cabin that the rest of the med unit used during the bitter winters. Miller had spent the better past of the last three days insulating the windows and door frames, well used to the damaging storms that forced melted snow through any unprotected cracks after four years living in this hell. She liked Miller. He was one of the only ones that actively sought out her company.

He walked across her field of vision as she thought this and she smiled, appreciating the idea that she’d conjured him for her own amusement. Miller didn’t ask stupid questions. He just sat with her quietly. He’d been discharged from the army years before Clarke joined, never talked about why. Now he was the unit’s handyman and occasional security. He knew the names of all the trees, all the plants. The _proper_ names. Clarke felt disrespectful not knowing the names of the trees that burned for them to be warm at night. She would whisper them before she lit any fires, a silent prayer for a fellow victim who offered sacrifice to the flames for others.

Miller saw her, walked over slowly, sitting next to her without a word.

“There’s a bunk for you. I built it yesterday. It’ll be free for you whenever. It’s next to the door too.”

She looked across camp, her gaze hitting the bunker; the door closed tight against the sleeting rain. Miller’s beanie was glittery with raindrops. A small beauty in a dead world.

“My mother’s coming.”

Miller didn’t react, but she noticed that he started fiddling with the laces on his boots, not looking at her. She analysed the weight on her shoulders. Didn’t feel any lighter. Monty told her constantly to let people in, talk about her problems. The unit’s resident psych, Harper, held weekly circles for the unit. Even Miller went.

She tried again.

“She’s coming next week, with the next batch. Kane says she’s going to check on our unit, check that we’re doing what we should be.” She knew she was angry, could feel it in the prickling on her skin, but her voice was even. Screaming, but no one could hear.

“The snowdrops are blooming.” She followed Miller’s pointing hand, saw a small patch of stiff pale green stalks pointing skywards, trying to escape the barren ground, escape being stood on. Danger from where it came from and where it was going. There was only one white bell bloom, so tiny it looked pathetic. Clarke resented that she found so much solace in something so fragile. Resented also that Miller knew that, knew that she had an innate need to bond with things that had no soul, no heart, nothing that could hurt her.

He stood up, rubbing his legs from the cold.

“The snowdrops will still be here when she leaves.”

Clarke considered this, eyeing off the stalks reaching suicidally for the well-trodden path between the operating theatre and the shower block. She thought Miller was putting hope in the wrong places.

He walked away, beanie still glittering in the watery sun that burst briefly through the sodden clouds.

* * *

It was colder that night. Colder than it had been. Octavia had stolen two blankets from Patient Supply and refused to leave Clarke alone until she accepted them.

Strange that being constantly in flame didn’t keep you warm.

She ended the med unit nightly briefing with a quick aside that the Surgeon General would be visiting when they received the next batch of soldiers, hoping uselessly that she could slide it in without people noticing. Bellamy had started questioning her before she’d finished speaking.

“The Surgeon General? Why?”

She had done an impressive job avoiding him since he’d put his fingers down her throat and she’d realised that nothing would satisfy her until she knew what it would feel like to have him inside her.

Bellamy had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with her. That he was repulsed by her willingness, her softness. She’d seen his eyes that day, seen them glaze with disgust when she’d revealed she would affect the sensibilities of a doormat if he wanted it.

The med unit knew what she’d done with the Grounders, he’d made sure of it. Steamed around camp, got into a screaming match with Octavia when she’d waded in to defend Clarke. It was as if he wanted to share his disgust of her with everybody. The only satisfaction she’d got was witnessing the apathy with which the rest of the unit reacted. She didn’t know whether they trusted her reasons or thought she was insane. Whatever it was they didn’t care. They didn't have the respect that Bellamy did. Didn't bother with it, because they knew it got in the way of their work.

“She’s going to be conducting an inspection, making sure that we’re doing things properly.” She met Miller’s eyes across the campfire. “She shouldn’t stay too long.”

Some members of the unit stayed around the campfire until it burnt down, spending hours after each briefing drinking, talking. Murphy was a mainstay, sharp eyes muffled by alcohol. He was a superb trauma tech, eerily calm in all situations. He was close to no one, sharp tongued and severe, but she found common ground through pragmatism. He questioned nothing she did, showed no surprise at her experimental surgical procedures.

After the briefing ended, she watched him watch the fire, wondering whether it would easier to see the world in black and white like him. Whether an eye for an eye was the smartest way to live. She knew his purpose, knew his principles. Subtract, add, adjust. He would make the same decisions she did. But Bellamy accepted him because it was obvious how Murphy worked. Was it not obvious how she worked? Not obvious to Bellamy, to the only person who should understand?

Bellamy had left after the briefing, mumbling something to Miller about patrolling the perimeter. She watched him walking away, the only time she allowed herself to look at him now. Clarke was intimately acquainted with the way his shirt fell across his broad shoulders, how his shoulder blades stretched as he walked, merely hinting at the raw strength she’d felt at the river.

She was doomed. She knew this. She accepted it.

Accepted that the remedy to the fire burning inside her, the flames crawling up her spine, was his touch. Knew that she wouldn’t feel it again. Knew she was doomed to burn.


	4. Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes it is me, updating not even twenty four hours later because procrastination is peaking and I need something to distract myself from failing uni! yay! I've loved reading the comments, its giving me the validation I crave from my professors <3 i have not proofed this so its probably trash but enjoy as much as you can make sense of!

Surgeon General Griffin was terrifying. The whole unit was on tenterhooks. Miller had removed his beanie for the first time in months after Griffin had insinuated in a loud undertone to Clarke that it was reprehensible to have, ‘orderlies around that don’t know the value of the uniform’.

Clarke barely spoke. All the wind seemed to have left her sails with the arrival of her mother, and for once, Bellamy felt pity for her. Griffin often pulled him into conversations, seemingly deferring to his command over Clarke’s, but Clarke raised no objection. Just seemed to be expending a lot of energy on trying to melt into the wall.

“So they’ll need all the usual injections; we’ve managed to extract some key strength enhancing proteins that the Kru use, and we’re in the process of applying them to some sort of serum that we can easily administer to our troops.” Griffin was discussing the latest technology as she surveyed the stocks of Patient Supply, and Bellamy suppressed an inward shudder thinking about what Kru prisoners of war had been put through to extract such proteins.

Griffin had arrived two days ago with a fresh batch of greenies. Bellamy had had to chase down five runners in the last twenty-four hours, and was operating on less than optimal amounts of sleep. The greenies were noisy in their terror, their nightmares echoing around the camp from their sleeping quarters. From his tent that Bellamy had steadfastly refused to leave for the bunker, he’d heard everything.

Bellamy had only ever seen Surgeon General Griffin from a distance at Corps events. He knew she was considered somewhat of a miracle within the Corps, making rank at such a young age. Clarke had never discussed her openly; he’d only realised they were mother and daughter a year ago when Octavia had mentioned it in passing. They didn’t look similar. He wondered whether Clarke took after her father.

“Well we’ve been re-stocked as you can see; we’ll be able to meet those demands. I look forward to the strength serums.” He showed Griffin out of the room, meeting her frosty smile with a slight nod, glancing back at Clarke, who didn’t appear to notice they were leaving.

“Clarke-” he hissed at her. “Come _on_.”

He turned and nearly ran straight into Griffin, who had stopped and was surveying her daughter silently. Bellamy was forcibly reminded of a predator analysing its prey before it went in for the kill.

“Lieutenant Blake tell me; does it get tiresome dragging around dead weight?” She skewered him with her gaze, looking away sharply from her daughter as Clarke looked up when she spoke.

“I’m sorry?”

“My daughter was very insistent on joining the Medical Corps, but it appears she’s done nothing to improve herself with the time she’s been given. It’s a miracle she’s even made lieutenant. I understand Commander Kane had something to do with it.” A smirk ghosted across her mouth. “I can assure you, if you were understandably wondering, nepotism has nothing to do with it. I wouldn’t conceive of threatening the safety of this camp by thrusting my daughter upon you all. It must have been incredibly taxing for you.”

Bellamy was silent, staring at her, the words exchanged during the last fight he’d had with Clarke echoing through his head.

“Surgeon General, if you’re ready, we’d like to show you the Operating Theatre.” Clarke’s voice was smoother than he’d ever heard it and he looked up to see her face, wooden in courtesy. Her mother continued staring at Bellamy but after a beat turned to leave the room. Clarke followed swiftly behind her, brushing past Bellamy so fast he wasn’t able even to meet her eyes with…what? Sympathy?

If he was honest, Clarke might not look like her mother, but they sounded identical. It was clear where she’d learned the technique of veneering, of masking. He had never expected to meet anyone who was better than Clarke at slicing someone down in a few words. Surgeon General Griffin was another beast entirely.

He followed the pair out onto the decks, watching the way they walked next to eachother. They exchanged no words – Clarke matched her mother’s stride, but kept a step behind her, deferring to her mother or making it harder to talk he didn’t know. They were the same height but Griffin’s shoulders were squared, her very posture indicating her rank. In comparison Clarke was diminished, her thin blonde braids wound around her head in a way he wasn’t sure he liked. She’d dusted off the khakis the day before Griffin had arrived, was neater and cleaner than Bellamy had ever seen her.

She looked alien, part of a world he could never inhabit.

As they entered the operating theatre, Griffin again began talking to him, drawing his attention from Clarke, who took a post by the door and bent her head slightly, indifferently.

“I understand that this unit has undertaken some risky procedures. Commander Kane tells me that a new skin grafting technique was deemed successful. Is the patient still recuperating here?”

Bellamy glanced at Clarke, wondering if she’d want to take this one, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Yes, the patient is still here, recuperating on our ward if you’d like to see him, Surgeon General.”

Griffin inclined her head, sending a sideways glance at her daughter.

“What did you find from the dissection of the Grounders?”

Bellamy sucked in a breath, stared at Griffin, who was regarding him coolly, like she was reading his mind.

“I’m sorry?”

Clarke stepped forward, slightly in front of Bellamy. Griffin noticed this, her eyes narrowing for a split second.

“The skull was deformed – as you suggested, Surgeon General, I found indication of horns or other disfigurements.” Bellamy couldn’t speak, couldn’t get words past the lump in his throat. She had done it for Griffin, had done it on official orders and he’d degraded her in front of the entire camp, had shoved her against a tree and yelled in her face.

Griffin, still staring at Bellamy, made no effort to look at her daughter.

“I assume you sent samples to the Ark?”

Clarke nodded.

“They will be there for you to analyse on your arrival. I suspect chemical drug use, perhaps brain poisoning – the swelling of the prefrontal cortex appears to have impaired their decision making. We’ve not had other Grounders attempt a full-scale assault on our walls. I imagine that they had been abandoned by their tribes.”

“I did not ask for your opinion Lieutenant Griffin. A report will be sent to you once we have had time to analyse the samples. I ask you not to speculate on useless theories without sufficient evidence.”

Clarke looked almost mutinous, the mask lifting slightly. Standing behind her Bellamy saw a muscle in her cheek twitch from clenching her jaw.

“Certainly, Surgeon General.”

The atmosphere was almost glacial, so thick and cold Bellamy felt paralysed. He was only a spectator to this war between the Griffins, fought in silence, in the space between words. He had the uncanny feeling they were speaking a different language; one he couldn’t understand.

He sought out O after the tour with Griffin had ended and she had retired to her tent to write up her notes. Clarke had left camp immediately, and he knew where she was. He suspected that it would snow in the next few weeks but as long as the river wasn’t frozen over, she’d still be swimming in it.

Octavia was inside the bunker, reading a report Griffin had delivered which detailed new plans for the Medical Corps. She looked up as Bellamy entered, shaking his boots and removing his jacket at the sudden warmth afforded by the wood burner Miller had installed last winter.

“You know they want us to wear our uniforms everyday right? Wishful fucking thinking. As long as they only give us two sets there’s no way I’m wearing a bloodstained shirt every day of the week. And who’s going to dry them during winter? Does she not see the fucking weather?”

Bellamy gathered O was talking about Griffin. She closed the report and threw it at the end of her bed, swinging herself off the bunk and approaching the wood burner.

“How’s Clarke?”

For once Bellamy didn’t feel the need to attack her for asking about Clarke before asking about him. He wondered just how much O knew about Clarke’s family situation. She didn’t seem surprised at how Clarke had changed with the arrival of her mother.

“Her mother’s terrifying.”

Octavia snorted, poking at the coals. She swung the little glass door shut and turned to face him, looking characteristically annoyed.

“Well that’s obvious to anyone who has two eyes to see with, big brother.”

Bellamy sighed, taking a seat at the end of the wooden table that ran down the middle of the cabin, dividing the bunks.

“You knew she asked Clarke to hack up those Grounders, didn’t you? That’s why you had a go at me?”

Octavia didn’t answer him, but didn’t look away either, choosing instead to seat herself and adopt a pitying expression, one he knew was directed towards him, one he didn’t like one fucking bit.

“What am I missing O? What isn’t she telling me?”

Octavia stared at him for a beat, two.

“The things she keeps from you she does for a reason. She knew you wouldn’t have done it.”

“Done what?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Finally, he might get some answers.

“Look, they think that Kru is engaging in some kind of chemical abuse, testing shit out on Grounders before they apply it to their own soldiers. They sent an urgent report to Clarke about a month ago, asking us to keep an eye out for any unusual activity. When those two Grounders scaled the wall, she knew what it meant.”

Bellamy opened his mouth to speak but Octavia held a hand up, stopping him.

“I know what you’re going to say and off the bat I didn’t agree with her about keeping you out of the loop. And for the record she only told me because I came in on her while she was prepping those Grounders and asked her what the hell was going on.”

O eyed him disapprovingly.

“Course I didn’t go off at her like you, because unlike you, I trust her, and I trust her decisions.”

Bellamy looked away.

“She told me the whole thing, told me I shouldn’t tell you because she knows you wouldn’t do it, that you’d kick up a fuss about cutting up dead bodies.”

Octavia leaned forward intently, waiting until Bellamy met her gaze.

“You can’t cross the Surgeon General Bellamy. Clarke knew you’d complain, knew you’d bring up some shit about the sanctity of warfare or some other bullshit.”

Bellamy bristled at having his respect for death being described as ‘bullshit’, but didn’t think it was worth interrupting O to let her know that. She’d always been infuriatingly cavalier about the rules of conflict.

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

O leaned back against her chair, looking thoughtful for once.

“I think she reckoned you’d swallow it if she did it. Just brush it off as one of those things that she does, you know. Your instincts are always to protect Bellamy. Sometimes it gets you into trouble. You gotta realise that we’re not all alone out here. We serve the Ark. We act against them and it’s all our necks on the line.”

Bellamy was quiet, thinking about the fights he had had with her, the accusations he’d levelled at her. Was she really as savage as he thought she was? Was she just protecting him?

“Don’t try and fix anything while Griffin’s still here, big brother. Clarke’s under enough stress without having to hold all your guilt.”

He left the cabin, welcoming the icy wind that came with it. The bunker was stifling in the winter, too many bodies, too warm.

The camp was almost empty, evening blanketing the trees. It was getting darker earlier nowadays, the sun setting by five o’clock. He knew everyone would be at the mess, but he wasn’t hungry. He eyed Clarke’s tent across the way, wondering whether she was back from the river yet, whether he should try and talk to her.

But Octavia’s words came back to him, and instead, he walked away.

* * *

“It’s too dark to be swimming Lieutenant Griffin.”

Murphy’s voice made her jump, a fresh wave of ice water searing her chest as she bobbed up slightly, her skin numb and on fire in the cold air.

She could barely make out his slight frame against the trees, realised he was right.

Clarke moved slowly, lethargically, made it to the bank, feet so numb she couldn’t feel the river mud pushing between her toes. As she hobbled out of the water, she didn’t know whether she was stepping on rocks or sticks, and didn’t care for that matter.

Murphy held out a towel for her, a luxury she didn’t usually allow herself. She wrapped herself in it, shivering so violently her teeth felt as though they were trying to escape her skull.

“You know, we’re not much use without a head surgeon.”

Murphy had shown no qualms at seeing her naked, eyed her bare skin dispassionately.

“Bet your mom wouldn’t be pleased if she had to bury her daughter on a routine trip to the camp – wouldn’t look good for the Griffins.”

Clarke couldn’t speak because she was so cold, but Murphy seemed to understand the glare she shot him.

“Ah, your mom doesn’t care. I see.”

He watched her for a second, realised that she wasn’t able to move. He reached forward and wrapped his arms around her, violently rubbing her skin in an attempt to warm her.

“Here, put this on.” He guided her arms through a thick woollen jumper that she didn’t remember bringing with her, placed her hands on his shoulders to stabilise her as he helped her into a soft pair of pants.

“They’re mine and if you don’t bring them back clean, I’ll send your mom a laundry bill.” She found herself smiling, or at least attempting to, the feeling so foreign that she was surprised she remembered how to.

“Can you walk?” She nodded, let him push her frozen feet into her boots, and they set off together, the towel still wrapped around her shoulders, his arm around her waist.

She imagined what it would be like if she loved John Murphy. It would be easy, she decided. They thought the same way. His calmness, which she’d heard Octavia describe as the hallmark of a serial killer, attracted her to him. He would never react badly to anything she did. But that was the rub.

Murphy was so detached, so closed off, that he was a robot in human form. He was impossible to be close to, because he patiently and continuously worked at severing himself from any sort of feeling. It was something she admired about him, but as they walked through the forest, and he talked softly about the greenies, keeping up a chatter to save her from trying to make conversation, she knew it couldn’t be more than just admiration. He was too far gone to be saved.

Her mother would have liked him. He was the perfect soldier.

They made it back to camp in one piece, and he made no effort to try and convince her to sleep in the bunker. It was late, and she wondered for the first time why Murphy had been walking around outside the perimeter during dinner time, how he had known she would need warm clothes. Come to think of it she never really saw him eat.

He made sure that her tent was insulated properly, lit the small wood burner she kept at the foot of her bed and left her, quietly, gone before she could thank him. She realised he’d probably saved her life. She was getting too used to the cold, too used to hyperthermia. She was trying to match the numbness she felt inside by making everything numb.

The process of recovering warmth is always painful. The body’s way of overcoming numbness is by assaulting itself with millions of pins and needles, making sure that all the nerves work, checking that nothing has been lost. She lay in agony for an hour, waiting to return to a normal temperature. 

She didn’t realise for a few minutes that there was someone outside her tent, talking in a low voice. Slowly, painfully, she pushed her mind to understand the words.

“It’s Bellamy. Can I come in? Clarke, can you hear me? I talked to Octavia. I need to talk to you.”

Her skin prickled, hairs on her legs and arms standing on end. Nerves already enflamed and now she was forced to suffer the humiliation of feeling herself physically react just to his voice? She was shameless, betrayed by her own body.

She’d had to spend an entire day in his company, knowing he was watching, listening to her mother humiliate her. She had felt his eyes on her, knew his disgust for her had built by seeing how cowardly she was when Abby was around.

And Abby had betrayed the secret she’d carried in her chest, betrayed that she’d cut up those Grounders on her mother’s orders. Clarke had hoped to spare him from the knowledge that the command he worked for held so little respect for the values he held dear.

She’d seen him savagely kill those who threatened their safety, seen him mercilessly shoot down those who would attack them. But she’d also seen him painstakingly bury each one, hold a moment of silence for each life he took, knew the toll it had on him. She’d wanted at least to preserve his honour, his dignity in believing that he fought for the right side.

Even when he’d attacked her for it, she didn’t tell him. Even in hysterics she wouldn’t yield. Was it so wrong of her to wish he’d pushed her harder into that tree, wish he’d taken what he so obviously wanted from her? Was it so wrong of her to welcome the pain of accountability, welcome the pain of humanity?

She had touched herself to the feeling of his hands around her throat every night since it had happened. Had fucked herself with her fingers, almost sobbing in frustration with the knowledge it couldn’t compare to him. Woke in agitation, frustration, her mind taking her to places she hadn’t been, imagining scenarios that would never happen. 

The anger that she had engineered, facilitated, by keeping him from the truth, allowing him to take it out on her, was anger she wanted now. Anger she craved. Anger that she knew tapped into the deepest parts of her mind, the most shameful corners of her desire – to be used, to be seen, to be wanted.

“Clarke?”

And here he was, outside her tent, begging admittance, and she couldn’t stand the gentle tone in his voice, couldn’t forgive Octavia for betraying her secret. Couldn’t forgive herself for hating the softness she could hear, the pity. She didn’t want his pity; it was worse than his disgust. She wanted his fury, his anger. Wanted the certainty with which he lived his life to motivate his condemnation of her.

She was silent. Listened to his breathing on the other side of the tent flaps. She wondered whether he’d come in without asking, whether he’d burst in in righteous anger. Her cunt throbbed at the thought and she pushed her thighs together, hoping he would, knowing he wouldn’t.

After a few minutes of silence, she realised that he’d walked away, his footsteps masked by the stormy wind whipping up around them.

She exhaled; didn’t realise she’d been holding her breath. Her throat was blocked – she couldn’t have talked even if she wanted to. How she wanted him to burst in here, to take her, use her, make her his. And yet she knew the disgust he had for her, the pity he might feel, the repulsion.

How could he ever think of touching her again?


	5. Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real question at this point is will I ever finish my exams? Thanks for the lovely comments <3

Octavia had dealt with soldiers for nigh on ten years, both before the war started and during, and hoped never to see another one after the war ended, if the war ended. Soldiers were dangerous. Specifically bred for war, then bullied out of feeling any emotion that made humans different from animals. She had seen Ark soldiers mow down entire villages, roar headfirst into battle and cut off their own hands, fingers, shoot each other in the head, if it ensured survival of the Ark. 

The Dropship was one of four med camps set up permanently and safely behind the front. The med camps alternated from providing respite to returning regiments and stitching up the wounded to facilitating the greenies who needed the jacked-up steroids to rid their brains of empathy before they started their customary six-month rotation at the front. The greenies were more fun – less unnerving to be around. There was more singing, dancing, drinking – the occasional hot-headed fight, usually a runner or ten that Bellamy needed to chase up. Octavia could be assured of a fresh fuck or three. Perhaps that was why she was so on edge. Surgeon General Griffin’s presence in the camp was one of the more effective cockblocks Octavia had encountered. The greenies were unusually cowed, silent except in their misery. She’d spotted a few good-looking ones and cursed Griffin for being such an insufferable overlord. Soldiers were ruined after the front, no fun at all. Utterly unattractive.

Under Clarke and Bellamy's leadership the Dropship med camp had grown into a compound. It was the largest med camp down the Southern Front. The Ark, originally displeased that Clarke wasn’t following official guidelines, took less than three months to realise that Clarke was impressively more hard line than even their high standards. They left her alone after that. She ruled with an iron fist. So Octavia couldn’t understand why they were sending in her mother, the one authority that Clarke would bend to. It wasn’t like she’d done anything that Commander Kane would disapprove of.

Octavia had been watching Griffin. Watched her traipse around camp with Clarke and Bellamy in tow, watched her snidely insult her daughter in front of the unit. Watched her as she stealthily appraised the whole camp, making those damn notes everywhere she went.

Bellamy’s mind was too full of Clarke to be any sort of help in telling Griffin to fuck off, and Octavia knew the price she would pay if she tried to defend Clarke in front of her mother. It was infuriating.

A week had passed since she’d told Bellamy about the Grounders, and, though she told herself it was the right decision, Octavia had been disturbed when she realised Clarke was avoiding her. Clarke avoided people by looking through them. She would never walk the other way when she saw Octavia, but she kept her eyes at mid-level, answered any attempts Octavia made to talk to her in weak monosyllables and made no effort to extend conversation. Octavia was about ready to knock both their heads together when she realised Bellamy had decided to make up for his pigheaded behaviour towards Clarke by sending other people to do his dirty work.

Murphy had been characteristically opportunistic.

“Want some meat, Blake?” he called across the fire one bitter night. He was attempting to roast a skewer of some kind of dead animal over the flames and Octavia took great pleasure from knowing it was going to be raw inside as long as he tried to cook it on that angle.

“Thought your rations ran out two weeks ago Murphy.” She made to get up, leave on the heels of her remark, but his reply stopped her in her tracks.

“It did. Your brother traded me his.”

She turned fast, ignoring the smirk that lit his features.

“Bellamy wouldn’t do that.” She cast a quick glance around the fire – it was only Murphy tonight, thank god. His strange attraction to flame had him out by the campfire nearly every night, long after everyone else went to bed. Sometimes it was only him and Clarke out here, indulging their fucking weird pyromania. Clarke had recently started chanting unintelligible names underneath her breath before they lit any sort of fire, and Murphy often stole burn cream from Patient Supply because he sat too close to the flames.

Octavia thought they were both mad.

“Think again, little Blake.” She stared at him, weighing up how badly she needed to know with how badly she didn’t want to have to ask Murphy.

They both turned at the sound of boots against metal, watched as Bellamy and Miller tramped down the Med Bay ramp, heading towards them. Octavia shot Murphy what she hoped was a withering glare and hurried over to Bellamy, encircling his arm and dragging him to the side, trying to ignore the feeling of Murphy’s eyes on her neck.

Miller paused, gazing at both of them, apparently unsure whether or not to follow. He disliked Murphy as much as Octavia did and looked loath to join him by the fire. He opted for shuffling his feet idiotically, evidently deciding to wait for Bellamy. Octavia rolled her eyes.

“Why does Murphy have your meat ration?” she hissed in an undertone. Bellamy avoided her eyes.

“Answer me Bell. Why’d’you give that bootlicker your food?”

Bellamy huffed, squared his feet and folded his arms, evidently trying to impress her into silence. She stared at him, eyebrows raised, nonplussed. He paused, then slumped when he realised she was resolutely unmoved.

“So he can keep an eye on Clarke.”

Octavia was stunned into silence for a moment, trying and failing to comprehend the extent of her brother’s idiocy.

“Excuse me?”

Bellamy turned to her, looking more tired than she'd seen him in a while.

“So she doesn’t go down to the river anymore. It’s too cold. We can’t risk her drowning, we’re going to be swamped soon, you know winter’s hard.” Octavia recoiled at the brusque, cold voice coming from her brother’s mouth, the calculating way he referred to Clarke. She gave herself a second to remember the breathing techniques Harper had told her to do whenever she felt the urge to dislocate someone’s jaw.

“And you decided that _Murphy_ would be the best person to do that?” her acid tone didn’t land. Bellamy nodded, already bored with the conversation, superior to the last.

“I cannot fucking believe I’m related to you.”

She took his arm, none too gently, and dragged him further away from Miller and Murphy.

“Look, whatever you’re going to say, save it. She trusts him, she listens to him and he’s doing it because I paid him enough.” Bellamy’s voice was full of self-righteous irritation as he tried to wrench his arm from her grip but she wasn’t having it.

“If you’re so concerned about her, why aren’t you doing it? Huh? Why aren’t you doing what is so important that you gave away your whole meat ration?”

A shadow passed across her brother’s face, and he looked, for a few seconds, like an old man. When he spoke now it was in a low whisper, a thread of something Octavia couldn’t identify running through his words.

“I’m not-,” he broke off, exhaled loudly through his nose. “I can’t be around her okay? I need to keep things professional with her, I need to keep this camp from running into the ground and I can’t if I’m chasing after her like this-“

“No-one’s asking you to chase after her, this is ridiculous Bell, she’s an adult, she doesn’t need-,” but here Octavia broke off, knowing that what she was going to say was untrue, hearing their argument from weeks ago. Clarke was becoming a danger to herself, increasingly withdrawn and obviously not coping well. She tried again.

“Look, why don’t you just talk to her Bellamy? She listens to you when you’re not jumping down her throat-,” but she stopped abruptly at the look on Bellamy’s face. She'd never seen him look so repulsed.

Maybe things between them were worse than she thought. She knew what Clarke felt for Bellamy, had known that Bellamy was stupidly oblivious. She’d also assumed that he must have realised how Clarke worked on some level, even subconsciously, but his face said otherwise. Was it possible she’d misunderstood the signs? Something had gone badly wrong, if his face was anything to go by. She gave her last try, already feeling as though she’d lost, without understanding why.

“Bellamy, has it occurred to you that Murphy’s psychotic? Or that, I don’t know, there’s absolutely no need to involve him in your little competition of who can care the most without saying it first?”

That got through to him. He looked at her suddenly, sharply, jaw ticking. She swore she could see a fire burning behind his eyes. For the first time in a long time she remembered why her brother was so intimidating. Why this camp wasn’t just the most efficient but the most feared. Why Clarke and Bellamy made such a terrifying team, when they weren’t ripping each other apart.

“Whatever you’re thinking, O, stop it. There’s nothing there, nothing. I don’t know what kind of fucked up scheme you’ve thought up but you need to drop it now.” She took a half step back, put off by the venom in his tone.

He bent closer to her, his voice so low she struggled to hear him.

“I’m doing this because Griffin is on our ass about this unit. I have no clue where she gets her information but someone’s told her that there’s something wrong with Clarke and she’s here to prove it. I can’t risk anything happening to Clarke on my watch because she puts a foot wrong and Griffin’s going to take her away.”

Octavia took a step back, heart in her mouth.

“Bellamy, what are you saying…”

He grabbed her hand, looking suddenly as though he was drowning.

“You told me this O, you know this. There are eyes everywhere.”

She stared at him, speechless.

“I looked for it, O. I looked for the directive to dissect the Grounders. The official document from Kane only asked us to deliver the bodies, whole, to the Ark. There was nothing in there about bashing them out here. Something’s wrong and I don’t know what it is. I can’t fix it while Griffin’s here and I definitely can’t do anything about it while Clarke’s being the way she is.”

This sobered her and she recovered some of her former anger.

“Has it occurred to you, big brother, that Clarke is like this because of you?”

He stared at her, eyes glittering strangely in the dying embers of the fire. 

“Yes.”

She was silent, realised what he was telling her, the words he wasn’t saying. He stood looking at her for a beat longer, then turned away, marching back to Miller. She could tell just by the set of his shoulders that he was fuming. 

Octavia stood, rooted in place, eyes unfocused, thinking about what he’d just revealed. How things were so much worse than she thought they were.

She blinked, suddenly exhausted, feeling as though she’d run a mile. Arguing with Bellamy took everything she had. She had no idea how Clarke could stand it.

A movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention and she turned her head slightly, searching the cloying darkness. It was only because she was looking so hard that she saw it. At the very edge of the pool of light streaming from one of the floodlights, a flash of blonde hair.

A deep sense of unease coiled itself around her gut.

Had Clarke been listening?


	6. Healer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to be talking about some heavy stuff so buckle up kiddos. All usual TWs apply, mentions of underage rape, physical abuse. I researched a couple different resources for Trigedasleng, so it's very patchy, pls forgive.

He dreamed of honey. Of snowdrops and velvet grass. Of a smile cut through glass.

He dreamed of the sun breaking the tree tops, dusting her fluffy hair. Dreamed of blonde waves twisting down her back like octopus tentacles. Dreamed of the shadow of a laugh, of a bunch of daisies, ruffled by a gentle breeze.

He dreamed of blood, pearling over razor cuts. Dreamed of hoarse screams and dead eyes. Dreamed of teeth, sharp on his skin. Dreamed of her skin.

When Bellamy woke, he had tears in his eyes.

It was barely dawn. He knew this because the light filtering through the tent was too dim to be coloured by the sun, and the camp was still silent.

The runner he’d chased down last night hadn’t been older than sixteen. He’d started sobbing when Bellamy and Miller had found him, pissed himself when they’d approached the camp perimeter. The runners were usually young. They weren’t old enough to deceive themselves into thinking there was any honour in serving, they just missed their families. But last night Bellamy had felt like the enemy, holding the runner up, his hand encircling the boy’s whole arm easily. Had felt like the enemy when he had to be deaf to the boy’s shrieks, to his pleas, his attempts at begging.

He would feel better when the greenies were gone, he knew this. But while they were here, while they looked at him like he once looked at Commander Kane, he would feel responsible for their fear.

Bellamy slid out of bed, shoved his feet into his boots and left the tent quickly, quietly, no destination in mind, just a desire to leave behind his dreams, distract himself from the screams he could still hear in his head.

The snow was days away. Surgeon General Griffin was leaving with the greenies tomorrow, anxious to get out of camp before the way back to the Ark was blocked by weather. Bellamy could feel it in the air, wondered hopefully whether she’d leave today instead.

Miller was still on the compound wall, yawning through the last hour of his shift. He gave Bellamy a half-hearted salute as he opened one of the side gates and passed through quietly. He knew he should stay on camp, at least while Griffin was still prowling around, but he needed to walk. Needed to clear his head.

The wildlife was silent this early in the morning, this close to snow season. The tall deciduous trees had all but completely lost their leaves, skeletal branches poking the sky. They were more vulnerable to attack at this time of the year, because it was harder to hide in dead undergrowth, but they’d put in enough work over the fall to ensure that the Grounder tribes closest to them would leave them alone, at least until spring. He walked with no destination in mind, jolted horribly when he realised through the thinning trees that his feet had led him back to the river.

It was solid and he felt detached satisfaction knowing it would be harder for her to try and drown herself in frozen water. He’d come up on the lower end, looking up at the waterfall, spectacular in white crystal ice. Somehow this land still had the ability to take his breath away.

There were occasional rivulets pulsing through the ice on either side, making a valiant effort to flow down the fall, but he knew they would eventually still, plunging into silent winter.

He heard it before he saw anything, the crunch of dead leaves and frost under foot, and whirled around, heart in his mouth, knowing that he was vulnerable to crumble at her feet this early in the morning, this close to his dreams.

It wasn’t Clarke. His heart thundered in his chest, not sure whether to thank his stars or curse them.

The women - girl, she hardly reached his shoulders – was unrecognizable, wrapped in a thick woollen cloak with a deep hood. She was carrying a brace of dead rabbits, thin and scrawny, but food nonetheless. He started, hand on the gun at his belt, but stopped when she drew back her hood slightly. She eyed him silently, then backed up a good few paces, but didn’t run from him.

“Heya.” He knew her face from somewhere. Her green eyes were deep-set, hair pulled back in customary braids. She had no tattoos that he could see, but she wasn’t a child.

“Heya,” he replied cautiously, summoning his rudimentary and lacking Trig.

She observed him quietly, and he fidgeted under her gaze.

“Chon yu….bi-laik?” he stumbled over the words, and her mouth quirked slightly at the corner, as if she was laughing at him.

“Ai laik Madi kom Trikru.” He relaxed slightly, knew enough to understand _Trikru_ , one of the allied Tribes. The girl, Madi, noticed, and her mouth stretched into a small smile in response. She pulled her hood back further, perhaps trusting him.

“Yu laik fisa.” She told him, and he paused, struggling to remember what _fisa_ meant. “Yu laik fisa kom Arkkru.”

He nodded cautiously, at least understanding _Arkkru._ She turned away from him, called into the forest and he was instantly on the alert.

“Sis, Arkkru fisa ste hir.” She didn’t shout, so he knew her companions must be near. Cursed his own stupidity – she was only a girl, yes, but her companions may be much more lethal. The med unit’s alliances with the Grounders were transitory and fragile, and more stable the less they had to do with each other. 

He heard a rustle, looked anxiously past Madi.

“Fisa? Yu get emo?” Her voice stunned him. Clarke emerged from the trees, eyes wide. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked almost…relaxed. He watched as she clocked him and if he wasn’t so shocked he would have been amused at how quickly her expression changed.

“Bellamy?” She stepped forward, made to grab Madi to her.

“Belomi fisa!” Madi's smile widened, evidently pleased to know his name. Healer. _Fisa_ means healer.

“What are you doing here?” She pulled Madi behind her, and he felt a flash of irritation jolt down his spine. Why was she scared of him? Weren’t they meant to be partners? Her shining eyes were rapidly deadening. He wondered bitterly why she was most beautiful when he wasn’t around, why she seemed to will herself into dullness when he looked at her.

 _Because you made her like that._ A small voice in the back of his head stung him with truth.

“Shouldn’t I ask you that?” Madi was silent behind Clarke, smile fading from her face, watching them interact anxiously.

Clarke looked around quickly, into the trees, behind Bellamy.

“Madi, gon hou we.” She turned, slipped something into the younger girl’s hand. Madi sent a searching look back at Bellamy, but turned anyway and trotted away, pulling her hood over her head as she went.

Clarke faced Bellamy, setting her jaw.

“I’m not doing anything illegal.” Bellamy thought her mother might disagree, but decided not to point that out.

“Who is she? I know her face.” She stared at him, searchingly. He shifted under her gaze, tried not to catch her eyes.

“She’s the girl Collins raped.” She delivered this information in a flat voice, still staring at him, face blank.

Bellamy blanched, could feel his gut clench.

“Clarke…” She closed her eyes briefly.

“Don’t say anything Bellamy. You’re not going to change my mind. We’re responsible for her, we did this to her-,” her eyes looked suspiciously watery and he was stepping forward before he realised his feet were moving.

He could never predict the changes in her mood, rapid as wind, but knew for whatever reason that her tears didn't infuriate him as it did weeks ago. Perhaps because she was crying for someone else, not herself. He always responded to guilt, self-hate borne from letting down other people. He was an expert.

Octavia thought he was a masochist.

“Clarke.” She had one hand over her mouth now, watching him almost fearfully, dragging in deep breaths.

"I know we're not meant to have long contact with them but she's got no one and I was responsible for her and I let it happen and I just need to look after-," she was rambling, eyes fixed on him beseechingly. 

“Hey, hey,” he reached her, hesitated for all of two seconds before he pulled her into his chest. She tried to resist, and for a gut-wrenching moment he thought she would, was already wondering how to pretend that wouldn’t break him, but she only drew in a shuddering breath and stepped forward, tucking her head under his chin.

He wondered, mind detached, whether she would notice that his heart had stopped beating.

Bellamy remembered the day they’d realised what Collins had done. It must have been two years ago by now.

Clarke had been at the height of her power, emboldened by several successes with the Ark Council, working on construction of the ward. None of them had realised, though looking back they should have. Clarke had decided one way to foster community between them and the Grounder tribes they were attempting to make alliances with was to offer health consultations. They’d been ignored at first. The Grounders knew forest medicine and were suspicious of the battery of tools they’d witnessed be delivered to the camp.

But one day Trikru had bought a bunch of kids down. They’d fallen into a gorge and most of them had broken bones.

He remembered hating Clarke for how her eyes shined, how she chattered excitedly about how this was a breakthrough. He thought she was being too opportunistic, felt it was better to just sign a treaty and be done with it. Prolonged contact with the Grounders was unnecessary. Collins had been excited too. He rarely left Clarke alone, always bobbed at her right-hand side. Bellamy had been suspicious of his absence that day.

They’d found the girl behind the shower block, bleeding and catatonic. Trikru elders had been seconds from declaring war. He’d been trying to prevent that, holding a crisis meeting in the Med Bay, wondering desperately where she was. At that time, Clarke was the only one who spoke fluent Trig and he had been ready to slit his own throat trying to find some way to communicate the enormity of his guilt to the Trikru while also trying to get them not to attempt to raze the whole camp. Harper’s scream had sent him barrelling from the cabin.

She’d tied him up to one of the posts laid for the foundation of the ward. He was talking rapidly, and Bellamy heard snippets, flinched at the pet nickname _Princess_. Murphy and Miller, Monty and Jasper were watching from a distance, making no move at all to restrain Clarke.

Bellamy had rushed forward, grabbed her and dragged her away from Collins, shouting over her screams.

“What the hell are you doing Griffin?” She was panting, kicked out at him as soon as he set her down.

“He did it. He fucking did it.” Bellamy looked from her to Collins, whose eyes were bugging. No question, he was terrified.

“How do you know?” She shot him a withering glare, pointed at the Trikru elders who were watching impassively.

“She told them. They told me.”

“Clarke, this is setting a dangerous precedent. We can’t just go after whoever they tell us to.” She had stepped back, looking at him like it was the first time she’d ever seen him.

“She’s thirteen, Bellamy. How dare you.”

His stomach dropped. He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. He tried once more, motivated not by any loyalty to Collins, but to due process, any sort of respect to law. It was the first time she’d gone off book. He was positive the Ark would frown on this, didn’t know how to protect them from Kane’s fury. 

“Revenge isn’t justice, Griffin!” 

She took two steps towards him, got right up into his face, eyes blazing.

“There is no justice for a crime like this. No price will ever be enough to pay for what he did to her.”

Bellamy looked at Octavia standing to the side with Harper, face white as a sheet, and knew Clarke was right.

He stepped back, lifted his hands in a sign of defeat. Collins, who’d been watching their interaction, resumed shouting at Clarke, at them all, protesting his innocence.

Bellamy hadn’t known what Clarke was planning, had often wondered since if he would have stopped her had he realised. But every time he had thought about it since, he knew he would make the same decision, back her every time.

“Murphy, give me your knife.” Murphy had handed it over, the yellow grip with the initials JM looking lethal in Clarke’s hand.

It had been over quickly. Collin’s shouts had reached a crescendo then abruptly cut. The second of silence had felt like it stretched for an eternity, then his screams hit the air and Bellamy’s stomach turned when he had realised what she’d done.

Monty had thrown up where he stood.

And after all this time, she carried the guilt of what Collins had done as if it were yesterday.

He had never held her like this. In all the years they’d been leading this godforsaken unit he’d never touched her much. Maybe once or twice, as they grew more comfortable. A guiding hand on her arm, a quick tap on the shoulder for attention.

Once, he’d shown her how to shoot a rifle, hands on her shoulders, directing her aim. He’d felt a rush of something, got distracted by the way her hair had curled past her ear, the curve of her neck.

They got physical during fights. He was well used to catching her wrists when she lashed out and tried to hit him, had sustained a few punches before. He’d learned early on that maintaining distance between them when they were fighting was most important, and shoved her away any time she came close to him. He’d restrained her when she went after other people too, holding her hands behind her back. There’d been moments, few and far between, where he’d had to walk away from her for fear that if he stayed, he would hit her. Sometimes someone would hold him back for all of the two seconds he needed to come to his senses.

They never talked about it, never apologised or acknowledged it. That day at the river had unlocked something in him.

But he’d never held her like this, all softness, all support. It felt wrong somehow, like he was waiting for something to happen. But he couldn’t deny the fullness he felt, the satisfaction at the way she fit into him, nose tucked under his collarbones, his chin resting on her head. She wasn’t holding him – her arms were tucked in her chest, as though she was keeping something inside, but he felt safer like this, knowing that no part of her was exposed, that if anything happened, he’d take it first.

Her breath reached through his jacket, leaving ice behind.

He realised that he would not be the first one to let go, understood that he would hold her for as long as she needed him to. When she finally pulled away, carefully stepping well clear of him, he had to swallow the words he wished to say.

_Stay._

“She’s got no home.” He blinked at her, recognised after a few seconds she was talking of Madi.

Clarke was slightly turned away from him, avoiding his gaze. Expecting, he realised with an unpleasant jolt, that he was going to reprimand her.

“She’s not with Trikru?”

She shot him a swift, searching glance, and he hated that after all these years leading by her side trust was still a mystery to them.

“They turfed her out, remember?” Yes, he remembered, remembered Clarke’s rage, incandescent, her immediate order to stop medical supplies, cut off contact. It had required an executive order from Kane before she relented, allowing communication to open up, and somehow managing to be absent whenever representatives from Trikru visited the camp.

“Where does she live, then?” Again with that look and he wondered whether it was worth getting her riled up. She was always more forthcoming when she was angry.

“I found her a place. With a trader.” 

Bellamy decided to drop it, knew he wasn’t going to get anything else out of her.

They surveyed eachother silently, and he wondered whether she was remembering the last time they were at the river together.

But when she spoke, he wasn’t expecting the gut punch that followed her words.

“You can call off Murphy.”

“What?” He recoiled in shock. How did she know? Had Murphy told her?

“I heard you and Octavia last night.”

His stomach sank so fast he felt as though he’d just jumped off a cliff.

Her eyes were inscrutable, slate grey and cold.

“You doubt me, don’t you?” her voice was hard, and he knew he must be imagining the slight tremor that ran under her words.

“Clarke…” He remembered the last time he’d spoken against his better judgement, plunged them both into a war they were still fighting.

_You scare people, Clarke._

He wondered how much she’d heard, how much she knew.

Bellamy looked at her, disturbed to see her smiling. It was more a grimace really, chilling in this context. How could he desire someone who scared him so much?

“Go on. Ask me.” She was bitter, and he felt wildly as though he was walking into a trap. His heart was thumping through his chest and he couldn’t comprehend how she had transformed from the vulnerable young woman in his arms moments ago to the terrifying creature in front of him.

Except he could. He’d seen it before. He knew this Clarke, welcomed this Clarke. _Don’t touch me._

Bellamy knew it was a mistake, heard the last corner of his mind screaming at him as he opened his mouth. Knew, as he did before, that whatever he said would be a turning point. Knew and still plunged. Because he was an idiot, because he was stupid, because this woman in front of him was looking at him as though he was the last person on earth and the bringer of her destruction and maybe he wanted it. Maybe he wanted his words to hurt her, maybe he wanted the sweet, insidious pain that he felt from making her suffer.

“You lied. Griffin lied. I looked. There was no directive from Kane about cutting up those Grounders. Why did you do it?”

He was breathing a little hard, had rushed to get it out. There was a slight crease between her brows as she surveyed him, as if she was confused by the question.

“There are some things you don’t need to know, Bellamy,” she said finally, voice low but strong.

“Bullshit.” He was in it now, in this fight, could feel the familiar rage surging through his veins. She shifted slightly, as if she could feel it too it, and hell, she probably could. They were more attuned to each other’s anger than anything else, knew the signs.

“How am I meant to run this camp when you’re lying to me?”

She stepped forward slightly, eyes flashing.

“I have _never_ lied to you.” He opened his mouth to argue, feeling like he was reading to scream from frustration.

He had meant to wait until Griffin left, told Octavia he wouldn’t confront Clarke while she was like this. But Clarke had a habit of making him forget his words.

_Has it occurred to you, big brother, that Clarke is like this because of you?_

And he knew she was, would never forget the look on her face after he’d pushed his fingers down her fucking throat. _Don’t touch me_. Because he couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle her looking at him like he hung the stars in the damn sky after he got hard watching her cry, knowing that he’d caused the tears. Couldn’t handle it so he pushed her back to familiar ground, to the sharp, jagged ice queen he knew. Rejected her softness, welcomed her cruelty.

Clarke was staring at him, momentarily silent, perhaps waiting for him to say something, but he’d forgotten what they were fighting about, lost in silent, aching guilt.

“I’m not having this conversation with you.” He was going to be better. Had to be, for her sake. Had to forget that he wanted nothing more than to bend her over and fuck her until she couldn’t remember her own name. Had to forget that he fell asleep imagining how it would feel to cum in her mouth, imagining how it would look dripping down her chin.

Goddammit.

“Scared of me, Bellamy?” Her tone was nasty, quick. _You scare people._

He looked up, saw her narrowed eyes, realised that she wasn’t going to let him walk away from her like this and he wanted to scream at her, get in her face and tell her it was for her own good, that he was a fucking monster.

He knew what he needed to do, hated that it was easy for him. It had worked before. He knew when he was his most savage, she would leave him.

“Fine, you know what, fine.” He was too busy trying to formulate his words to notice the flash of triumph in her eyes, wouldn’t have known what to make of it if he had.

“Of course, I doubt you, of course I don’t trust you,” he tried to do this without locking eyes with her, but she was making it hard, staring holes through him. “You’ve been fucking pathetic this whole week, letting Griffin walk all over you. How the hell are you qualified to run this camp?”

He advanced towards her, hearing Octavia’s voice in his head, knew she’d break his arm if she heard him speaking like this.

“She had it right, you know. You’re fucking dead weight. You’re useless while you’re like this,” he paused to draw breath, snarling at her, letting out all his anger on her, wondering why she wasn’t leaving, wasn’t walking away.

She opened her mouth, spoke, and the words cut him to the bone.

“Are you going to choke me now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and i oop.


	7. Swallow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, folks, consent is sexy.

“Are you going to choke me now?”

They’d come from deep within her, those words, from the shameful place she wished she didn’t have. The way he’d held her had fucked with her head, fucked with her comprehension. That’s what she was telling herself.

She had been resolutely ignoring the throbbing between her legs, the wetness she could feel as she moved. Ignoring that the way Bellamy yelled at her was quickening her pulse, and she was having trouble focusing on him and not letting her mind get carried away. History repeating itself.

She’d egged him on. Done it again. Known exactly what she was doing. _Scared of me, Bellamy?_

His eyes were wide, pupils blown out. Heaving breath through his open mouth.

“ _What?_ ” his voice was hoarse, choked.

She wondered whether he desired her as much as she disgusted him. She had felt his dick against her hip, all those weeks ago, so hard she had been sure it would bruise her. And anyway, her mind wasn’t working now. She was driven only by desire, driving headlong into catastrophe. She knew that there was no going back, but had there ever been after she’d let him put his fingers in her mouth?

Still, Bellamy was standing rooted to the spot, and she felt a wave of humiliation wash over her. Had she misjudged this? It would be easy. Her brain had stopped functioning as soon as she’d clocked him with Madi. What if she’d severely miscalculated? She’d heard the way he’d talked about her with Octavia last night. What if the only desire he’d felt for her last time had been motivated from proximity, from the heat of the moment?

But she watched him swallow, her eyes travelling down his tall, lean form and she saw proof. He made no move to cover himself, no move to turn away, hide it from her. Looking at him, she wasn’t sure whether he’d even realised his dick was bulging underneath his cargo pants, against his thigh.

He hadn’t moved.

She stepped forward quickly, disassociating from any logic, any reason. Driven only by lust, by the need to feel him. She’d punish herself later, deal with the consequences later. Wallow in melancholy later. If this was just the heat of the moment then she would take him where she found him, hate herself later.

She dropped to her knees in front of him, relishing the impact of the hard ground on her skin, the melting frost and muck soaking through her pants. Good. She wanted this to be filthy.

He grabbed her hand as she tried to unbutton his pants, finally moving, and she sat back on her heels, looking up at him.

He looked like he’d been smacked in the face, mouth still slightly open. But she saw a glimmer of hunger in the dark of his eyes, a glimmer of predatory triumph.

“Clarke-,” he sucked in a breath as she pushed past his hands to get at his crotch. “Do you want this?”

She stilled momentarily, then looked up at him again, caught his gaze, wondered whether she looked as fucked out as she felt.

“ _Please._ ” It came out of her as a hiss, a breath, felt like a promise.

* * * 

She took him in her mouth as though it was as natural as breathing, and at the feel of her tongue hitting his dick, Bellamy thought he understood what it meant when the scholars wrote about Elysium.

She kept going, taking him all in, and when he hit the back of her throat, his whole world pitched forward. He grabbed a fistful of her hair to ground himself, closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing, feeling as though time had stopped.

He’d never been vocal before. Never thought about the need to give voice to what he was feeling. Sex had always been a clinical rush, necessary to blow off steam, but nothing to get excited about.

But Clarke. Clarke was fire itself, burning him alive.

A litany of words fell from his lips as she came off his dick, took it in her calloused hand and licked a long stripe underneath, circling the tip like she had been born to fulfill this very purpose. He wasn’t even sure whether he was conscious or not. He was vaguely aware that this was a forest, that they were in the middle of broad daylight, that he should be concerned for their safety, but the world beyond Clarke, beyond her mouth, her hands, had ceased to exist.

He cradled her head in his hands, as she moved on him, drove him further to madness. He could feel climax, hovering, just out of reach, hazy, but felt no push to speed this up. He wanted this to last forever, but as he finally looked down at her, at her lips around his cock, cheeks hollowed as she sucked, head thrown back, hair streaming down her back he felt such overwhelming desire that he nearly fell, legs shaking.

His hands, fingers, reflexively tightened in her hair and she _moaned,_ pulling off him and panting, holding onto him as she sat back on her heels and caught her breath. Her lips were slick with spit and before he could stop himself his hand was following the route he’d replayed hundreds of times in his dreams, tracing them with his fingers, thumb pressing down on her bottom teeth as she opened her mouth for him.

Her fingers tightened around his dick and he felt a lurch behind his navel as she sucked his thumb into her mouth, her eyes bluer than he’d ever seen them, bluer than the sky, than the deep river water of summer; he realised that Clarke’s eyes must be the blue that made all other things blue because without them how could the colour exist?

He pulled his thumb from her mouth, grabbed a handful of her hair, silky in his hands, and she shut her eyes as he pulled it slightly, fascinated by her response. He gathered all her hair into one hand, knotting it at the back of her head, held her jaw with his other hand, stroking her cheek as he guided her open mouth back onto his dick.

He could feel her relinquish control, could feel her moaning before he heard it, and her hands dropped to her lap as he fucked into her mouth, slowly, teasingly, finding it easier to remain grounded now that he was focused on her, on the way she reacted. She tried to speed things up, tried to push all the way down on him, but he pulled her away, sharply, and the broken cry that fell from her lips went straight to his dick.

“Look at me.” His voice was hoarse, jagged, barely above a whisper, but she opened her eyes immediately and he swallowed at the amount of power she was giving him. _Of course I don’t trust you._ They locked onto eachother and slowly, so slowly, he allowed her to take him in her mouth, letting her set the pace until he hit the back of her throat. She kept her eyes on him, stilling, watching him, like she knew what he wanted, knew what he was going to do. He was slow, to his credit, slow where he wished to be hard, brutal, rough, but he didn’t want to hurt her, he didn’t…

She breathed through her nose as he bottomed out, eyes slitted as she deep-throated. He could feel her fluttering around him as he held her in place, wondered how long she could keep this up.

He knew when he looked at her. Knew she’d stay as long as he wanted. The tell-tale tears formed at the edges of her eyes, and he realised as her tongue swirled around him that she had a hand down her pants. That’s what sent him over the edge.

He came as if he had been drowning and finally found air, a fractured moan teasing itself from his lips, and he let go of her head, let her take over. He felt his heart stop when she started sucking again, felt the ground lurch, and he groaned, knew he was broken.

She sat back on her heels, passed the back of her hand across her lips, filthy.

The world came rushing back.

The sun had risen over the treetops at some point, turning her hair into fiery gold. She was flushed, eyes sparkling, lips red. Of course, fucking agreed with her, of course it nourished her.

Bellamy fiddled with his trousers, unable to look at her, unable to think beyond what had just happened.

He opened his mouth, words on his tongue, wanting to ask, wanting to know.

But her face was already closing, dimming, the flush fading from her cheeks. She pushed herself to her feet, knees muddied and wet, and he went to say something, but the hand she held up stilled him, silenced him.

“I know. I won’t tell anyone.” She turned, walked away before he could stop her – or maybe he let her go.

Maybe he let her walk away from him because he told himself she wanted space, told himself that to intrude would be worse.

But Bellamy knew, watching her disappear into the trees, that he wouldn’t follow, couldn’t follow.

That the cowardice that had prompted him to force her away the first time had rooted in his soul, wound itself around his spine.

Bellamy knew that she would not forget rejection, just as he knew that he was too afraid to accept her, whole, open, without the protection of icy armour.

So maybe he let her go because he wanted her, he just didn't want all of her. 


	8. Guide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarke gets in her feelings and its super angsty lol. More fun smut coming tho don't even worry.

Clarke couldn’t get out of bed.

It was cold, bitterly cold, the wind blasting through the gaps in her tent and leaving her shuddering, breathless.

Her blankets were warm at least, or they would be if she was warm, if they had something to find and capture heat from. Her hair was falling across her face but she was too frozen to pull her fingers from under the covers and brush it away.

They knew it was coming, because it always came. It was why her mother had left so quickly, why the Greenies had been rushed to the front. The blizzards on the front were worse than she’d ever experienced in her life, as if even the sky was telling them that they were not welcome.

First snow had come a few days ago, briefly enveloping those who lived for simple pleasures in a euphoric haze, scurrying around and admiring the whiteness. The only thing Clarke liked about snow was the quiet. The stillness. The crunch. Expected noises, noises she could account for, understand. She could hear someone coming in the snow, prepare her face for interaction.

Clarke wasn’t really talking to many people so it wasn’t like this was a regular occurrence. But still. Nice to prepare.

The compound was beginning to rise with the sun. She flinched anytime she heard the crunching of boots outside her tent, wishing everyone away, and maybe she actually had some control over the fabric of the universe because no one bothered her. No one came to tell her it was time to eat, time for morning rounds, time for stock up, for meetings, for council briefings.

She tracked the time by watching the watery sunlight flickering against the grey fabric of the tent walls, counted the stitches backwards and forwards and backwards again.

Closed her eyes briefly at midday, to avoid staring straight at the burning white that flooded her tent with light through material fibre.

And still, Clarke couldn’t get out of bed.

And every time she shut her eyes, she could see him staring down at her like she had taught him how to breathe, and every time she moved her body, she felt his hands burning against her jaw, against her neck, brushing her cheek with blazing fire. When she swallowed, she was swallowing him and she murmured a whispered prayer that she would never forget the way he tasted.

And still, Clarke couldn’t get out of bed.

Even though staying still burned more than moving, even though staring at nothing hurt more than talking, even though hiding beneath blankets that felt as heavy as river stones crushed her more than making morning rounds and facing patients that she’d failed.

She couldn’t get out of bed because she would rather die than see his face again.

See Bellamy’s eyes move straight through her, as if she was as invisible, or worse, as if she was someone so uninteresting that to even acknowledge her would be a waste of time. Feel Bellamy’s laughter lacerate her insides when she knew she would never hear him laugh like that for her. Watch Bellamy walk, watch him pull Miller aside, watch him argue with Octavia and gamble with Monty and Jasper.

Watch Bellamy exist in perfect happiness because he was very deliberately existing without her. And she had made it that way, she had planned this. She just hadn't realised it would hurt this much.

How easy it had been to push away reason because he had been looking at her with those eyes, with those dark, dangerous eyes. How easy it had been to drop to her knees and worship him, because she’d cut the connection between her brain and her cunt, cut it with more ease than she’d ever cut anything in her life. How arrogant she had been, promising herself that what she would gain would be more than she would pay. How she had told herself, with perfect, naïve sincerity, that if she just had him now, she would pay it all back, how any consequence would be worth tasting him.

How she had not reckoned for the consequence to be of his own creation. How she had not realised how well she had sewn the threads, how well her plan was working. How she had been so naïve, so innocent, so wilfully ignorant of the horrific pain she would suffer if all she had worked for came to fruition. How she had not understood how badly it would hurt, to be struck by the weapon of her own creation, in the hands of the one she loved.

How right it had felt to offer up her whole being for a fraction of his light, a fraction of his eyes, of his touch, of his moans.

And yet…

She still knew, still refused to part with, the knowledge that he was it. That Bellamy Blake was her sun, her anchor. He was the talisman that she would hold against her chest as she went to war.

And, that is really what made the pain so deep, what gave the knife inside her wings and a map to her heart.

Because his rejection of her just confirmed what she’d always known, what she’d banked on, what she’d pitted her whole life against. That he was strong-hearted enough to fight for what was right instead of what was easy, what was good instead of what was corrupt. To prioritise his values, his morals, before anything else. To evaluate every risk before he jumped, if he jumped.

So really, that had been why she walked away, why she walked away from him and why she needed him not to follow, even if in the darkest corner of her heart she prayed to hear the crunch of footsteps behind her.

Because Clarke needed to prove, needed to know that he would stand his ground, that he would prioritise himself and his own before anything else, including her. She needed him to stand tall because she could feel herself splitting at the seams, could feel the effect of her mother’s work begin to take hold, knew what her mother was planning, knew it was working.

She needed to know that Bellamy was capable of using the weapon she had given him.

And while she wanted Bellamy to cross the line again, to take her as his, to prioritise her, choose her, more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life; she needed him to walk away, needed him to reject her, continuously, endlessly, even when his disgust shattered her a millions times over.

She remembered the desperation on his face as she stared him down, months ago, the first time she had tested it, the first time she had pushed him to use everything she had carefully constructed against herself.

_Do I scare you?_

She remembered him half backed into the tree by the river, trying, in his difficult way, to figure out what she was doing to him. Trying, and failing, because she had a plan and he knew nothing of it.

And so she had forced him, forced his hand, to check, to make sure that it was working, that he hadn’t figured it out, that he was still as mystified as he had been when she’d returned from Mount Weather, knowing what she knew, knowing she had to find a new leader, figure out a new plan.

_If you say something like that to someone, and then deny them the opportunity to grow from their mistakes, you are as bad as everyone else Bellamy._

She’d seen him struggle, seen the conflict rage in his mind, clear as day across his face. And then he had dived, and she had known and understood that it was working.

_You scare me. Because I can’t predict you. I don’t know how to justify your decisions. Because I know that they are right. But they are not decisions that any normal person would make._

And she could make those decisions because she knew he was at her back, knew he would block her, force her, marshal her, stop her from doing anything stupid, anything insane. She knew that she could count on him to hold her back from the gates of hell while she went to battle, fighting against her mother in a war she could never win.

But for the sake of Madi, for the sake of what she had seen at Mount Weather, for the sake of the Grounders, smashed to bits in a morgue, Clarke knew what she had to do. And she needed Bellamy. Needed him to pull her back from the edge, keep her sane with the reaction of his horror, with his human understanding of morality, his strict adherence to right and wrong. Because she could feel her grip on reality loosen every time Abby forced her to do battle.

Clarke needed Bellamy to teach her how to stay human.

_If you have morals, if you have a guiding-I don’t know, a guiding compass? I don’t know what that is, I can’t find it – I can’t, I don’t know where you get your strength or your conviction from._

Clarke realised she was crying, tears sliding down her frozen cheeks as she remembered him struggling to reason with her, thinking in his simple way that what he said to her could sway the course, could reason with her. And she realised, dragging in ragged breathes of wet, cloying air, that though she knew he could never know, knew she could never tell him, she wanted him to figure it out.

Clarke wanted Bellamy to realise that he was her guiding compass, her strength and her conviction.

But to tell him would destroy all she had built, would destroy any chance of defeating Abby, of walking through hell and coming out the other side.

And to love him and be loved by him as she yearned for so deeply would be to sign her own death warrant.


	9. Puppet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raven Reyes has entered the chat.

“We were able to remove the bullet from your spine but we weren’t able to save both your legs. Once you’ve stabilised from this surgery, the Surgeon General would like to put you under again so we can amputate.”

At the Ark, they didn’t believe in bedside manner. In fact, Surgeon General Griffin was known to not only actively discourage it but demote any doctor that looked like they were capable of feeling.

Raven knew this, and so she knew then that it was useless to take out this unholy anger she felt on the pale surgical intern, who had evidently been sent to deliver the news as a kind of initiation, but goddammit Raven was spitting mad.

“Where the fuck is Griffin? Why are you here? What are you, twelve? Do you know what I was put through to end up in this fucking bed just to sit here and listen to a _twelve-year-old_ tell me I’m going to have no legs? Get Griffin _NOW!_ ”

The intern had been jumpy coming into the room and now looked like she’d like nothing better than to let the floor swallow her, but she wasn’t moving and seemed to be trying to say words, so Raven knew there was more to come.

“Sergeant Reyes, the Surgeon General is busy at the moment and-“

Raven cast her eyes around and settled on the unappetising and congealing stew she’d been insulted with a quarter hour earlier.

“If you don’t get Griffin, you will be _wearing_ this.”

The intern bugged, looked quickly from Raven to the bowl she was reaching for, appeared to weigh her options and, with a squeak, scuttled from the room.

Griffin steamed in ten minutes later, a gaggle of surgical fellows and med insects swarming behind her, filling the grey bunker to capacity and making Raven feel like she was a damn test subject under a magnifying glass.

“Sergeant Reyes, I understand that you’re under stress right now, but I have an entire hospital to co-ordinate, and I could do without your tantrums.”

Raven narrowed her eyes, staring Griffin down. 

“What do you want?”

Griffin had opened her mouth, but at Raven’s words, shut it abruptly.

“Everyone out. Now.”

The swarm scattered, like cockroaches under light, and Raven felt her palms starting to sweat, even as she exercised insane control to keep her voice level, unbothered. Hard. 

“So.”

Griffin had picked up her chart for something to do, and Raven dreaded the moment the Surgeon General would finally look at her.

“Reyes, this is ridiculous. You’re extremely fragile right now, and you need to be resting, not stirring up trouble in my hospital.”

“ _So.”_

Griffin hooked the chart back onto Raven’s bed and folded her arms, finally looking her in the eyes. Raven steeled herself, allowed the fury she felt overtake her fear. How dare she. How _dare_ she.

“I knew the chances going into this surgery Griffin. I knew they were low. But I also knew you were the best surgeon this side of Mount Weather. Commander Kane himself personally guaranteed that I’d be walking in two months. You told me I might lose one leg. You'd take ONE leg. Why am I lying here and why are you telling me you’re chopping off both of my _FUCKING LEGS!”_

Griffin’s eyes flickered slightly, enough to let Raven know that something was off.

“And you had the sheer nerve to send a fucking intern to let me know that you fucked up? You know what? I don’t think you did. I know you, and you know I know you. You’re so fucking scared of what I might do if I go to Kane with w _hat I know_ that you’ve fucked me up. You fucking shot me and I know you botched this fucking surgery, probably on purpose. So. I want to know what you want. Because unfortunately Griffin I know you’re a goddamn spider, and I _know_ the lengths you’ll go to get what you want. So.”

Raven paused, to check maybe, if she was wrong, if Griffin had any shred of decent humanity left in her, but Griffin was unmoving, unsurprised, and uncompromising.

“So you have me here, in your corrupt fucking _morgue_ , you have me exactly where you want me, you’ve given me the stick so I want to know what the carrot is. You could've had me killed, easily, if that bullet had gone anywhere else. You and I both know I've got something you need or I wouldn't be in this damn bed, I'd be in the ground. I want to know what you want and how you’re gonna stop me going to Kane and telling him every foul thing I know about you because god knows you’ve got a plan.”

The truly terrifying thing about Griffin, the only thing that kept Raven from attempting an assassination attempt, though she did contemplate it _regularly_ , was that Griffin had a web. She always knew more, always had more, always was more. She had outmanoeuvred all applicants for Surgeon General with embarrassing ease, assuming power with all the grace of one who had a pack of aces up her sleeve.

Raven Reyes, even as the most decorated soldier in her division, shouldn’t have had a reason to cross paths with the Surgeon General. She should have been living her damn life happily building radios and communications and goddamn bombs in the peace and quiet of her workshop. Instead, she was here, in the black widow’s web.

She was here because she asked the wrong questions. Because she had the fucked privilege of personally knowing one of Griffin’s pawns and because of that damned sense of honour and decency and fucking stupidity that caused her to appeal to Griffin’s better nature, to assume that what she had thought, for one brief, horrifying second, must be wrong. And so she’d found herself on Griffin’s hitlist.

Literally.

Surgeon General Abby Griffin was a fucking psychopath and Raven was completely at her mercy. And yet she couldn’t just let Griffin walk all over her, she had to at least try for a shred of dignity.

“I want you to go to the front.”

Raven was shaking her head even before Griffin had finished speaking.

“Absolutely not. The front’s for cannon fodder and I am too damn good for common cannon fodder.”

Griffin tilted her head, the phantom of a smile ghosting across her face as she observed Raven like a snake sizing up its next meal.

Raven did not appreciate being made to feel mouse-like.

“Considering that both of your legs are on the line Reyes, I’m not entirely sure you have any bargaining chips to throw here.”

Raven cursed Kane to the heavens and back, wondering for the umpteenth time how it was fucking possible he had this nut heading the entire Ark Medical Corps, how he hadn’t twigged yet. But she knew why. Griffin was a superb surgeon, eerily calm in all situations, an expert in the field and the operating room, but she had something that was hard to find, something that made her stand out. She had a great, gaping hole where her damn heart was meant to be. And no one was pretending that being a saint was a good thing in this hellish war. Being a saint got you killed faster and robbed you of all respect while you lay dying. Being a saint got her shot in the back.

Being heartless, well that was a whole other story. Being heartless got you promoted. And secretly, Raven wasn’t too positive that Kane was as clueless as he’d like everyone to believe.

She threw her last hardball, knowing as she spoke that anything she could say was a dead loss. She was done for. But never let it be said that Raven Reyes goes down without a fucking fight.

“What the hell do you want me to do down at the front? I’m a special forces tactical engineer sergeant, Griffin. I am the most highly decorated soldier in my damn division. You’re gonna waste my god given talent on the front? You need me here, Kane needs me here. Who the hell do you think is gonna plan the next offensive on TonDC if not me? You would have lost three hundred miles of goddamn turf on that frontline last year if it wasn’t for me. Go to the front? Go to hell, Griffin.”

Raven tutted, reaching for the lukewarm coffee she’d wheedled from a nurse who was soft for soldiers. Reaching, and willing her hands to stop shaking.

“You were a special forces engineer sergeant, Reyes.”

“Excuse me?”

The glint in her eyes made Raven feel like puking.

“I said, you w _ere_ a special forces engineer sergeant. But right now, you’re lying in my hospital bed and I’ve just removed a bullet from your spine. Officially, you have lost the use of both of your legs and you’re facing imminent amputation. The best you could hope for is an honourable discharge with extended pay.”

Raven could feel her heart rate rising, could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. Griffin stood there with that odd little smile and Raven found herself wondering why she hadn’t gone through with an assassination when she had the chance.

“Officially? I can’t feel- you told me I’ve lost my legs, that there’s no hope-“ she sucked in breath through her nose, hand unwillingly pressing against her chest, hating the way that Griffin stared at her, refused to break eye contact, refused to blink, that faint, demonic smile whispering over her thin lips.

Griffin stared at her like she was enjoying the show, like she was enjoying watching Raven swallow tears as she struggled to comprehend what was going on.

“You were right, Sergeant Reyes. I am the best surgeon this side of Mount Weather. I am the best surgeon on this earth. I put that bullet in your spine, as you well know. I took it out, at Kane's request. An entire surgical class saw me take it out, and Kane will hear of it. He will hear that I did my best. What they didn’t see, and what won't get back to Kane, was the adjustment I made to your spine. You can’t feel your legs because I don’t want you to feel your legs. You can’t use your legs until I want you to use your legs.” Raven’s mind was scattering, shards of light flickering through her brain as she squeezed her eyes shut, trying in vain to avoid Griffin’s stare, trying to keep herself from falling apart.

“You’re my puppet Reyes, and you will do exactly what I want. Because I’m holding your strings,” Raven opened her eyes, felt her heart speed through her chest as she realised Griffin had moved forward silently, was suddenly a foot away from her, dead brown eyes razing through her, openly smiling now. “Because I’m holding your strings, and it would cost me nothing in the world to cut them.”

Special Forces Engineer Sergeant Raven Reyes was finally silent.

“So. You’re going to the front.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely loved the comments and kudos everyone has been leaving they've given me such a lift through quarantine! This is the first fic I've ever put online and it's surreal that so many people are enjoying it. Thankyou so much <3


	10. Claw

Clarke emerged from her tent on the fourth day of her self-imposed isolation.

Bellamy couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t enjoyed her absence. While the last four years had taught him patience, the Clarke he had dealt with then was unrecognisable from this cold, lost, weepy creature that was flitting around camp like a ghost. He had learned patience from the firecracker, but he had no idea how to deal with this new Clarke. And even less of an idea of how to deal with the crushing guilt he felt from knowing he’d made her like this with his deliberate rejection, his deliberate cowardice.

She’d visibly lost weight. Harper had taken to following her around camp, trying, he supposed, to initiate some kind of healing process. Part of him wanted her to succeed, but another, less vocal but no less present part of him wished she’d just leave Clarke alone. Perversely, he’d always felt proud of the fact that neither he nor Clarke ever attended Harper’s weekly circles. He’d felt like they were above the reach of the mental gymnastics that most of the compounds staff tied themselves into knots over. He had his morals, his sister to guide him. Clarke had whatever it was that kept her burning.

Except recently, it seemed like she’d lost it.

Thankfully, the beginning of winter was kind to them, and Bellamy didn’t have to stretch too hard to cover Clarke’s absence. Their alliances with the neighbouring Grounder tribes were holding, and the presence of heavy snow along active battlelines down the front had all but stopped the fighting, for now. They were only looking after their long-term patients, soldiers who’d been with them for months and were unlikely to see combat in the next year. Once the roads opened up, most of them would head back to the Ark. The next batch of greenies weren’t due until spring. The compound was settling into the dark, heavy winter, undisturbed by envoys from the Ark or the Front.

So when Miller raised the main gate just before dusk on the day of Clarke’s emergence, Bellamy’s first thought was that Clarke had managed to sneak out without him noticing and had lost her way back into the compound through the smaller, less obtrusive entrances along the southern wall. Though she boasted a pitch perfect sense of direction and before he would’ve trusted her to lead him home in a snowstorm, he’d learnt that he couldn’t be sure of anything with this new Clarke.

Only this morning, she’d broken down on her way back from the showers, silently sobbing on her knees as she pathetically patted the edge of the path that Atom had cleared of snow at dawn, overturning the earth to crack any stray black ice so no one would slip. Octavia had rushed over, but looked as mystified as Bellamy felt when Clarke refused her help. It was Miller who had finally got her to her feet, and as he’d towed Clarke away, Bellamy had heard her whispering about snowdrops and death.

But it wasn’t Clarke coming through the gate. Instead, two people blew inside, warm woollen cloaks drawn tightly against the gale swirling outside the camp. As Bellamy walked forward, he realised that one of them was pushing the other, who seemed to be in some kind of wheelchair. As the wind quietened and Miller climbed down the ladder from the wall and jumped down beside Bellamy, the one in the chair lifted the hood of her cloak and pulled it back to reveal a feral glare and a set jaw that could cut glass.

“I’m fucking cold. Where’s the goddamn mess? I need food.” The soldier’s drawl coming out of this petite brunette threw him and he exchanged wary glances with Miller as the second stranger withdrew his hood.

“Raven, shut up.” The brunette looked mutinous, folding her arms and glaring straight at Bellamy, as her companion, a slight, dark man with big brown eyes, stepped towards them.

“I’m Sergeant Eric Jackson, this is Sergeant Raven Reyes. We’ve been sent by the Ark.” The man’s tone was friendly, but Bellamy could feel Miller stiffening beside him and silently agreed. There had been no communication from the Ark that the Dropship should be expecting any newcomers, and the dead of winter wasn’t a popular time to visit. Reyes was still attempting to laser a hole through his head, and meeting her gaze, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She was looking at him like she knew him, like she had the size of him memorised and her eyes weren’t kind.

She opened her mouth and Bellamy felt his stomach churn, feeling, for some strange and inexplicable reason that whatever she was about to say could destroy him.

“I need food.”

* * *

They were the subject of intense observation.

The meds hadn’t seen new people since Griffin and her batch of greenies, who had been uncharacteristically down and depressed under the Surgeon General’s iron fist. Deprived of their usual source of entertainment and fun, the unit had been restless going into winter. Monty and Jasper had requested an exemption from their usual shifts to replenish their stocks of moonshine and Bellamy had easily agreed, privately wondering what the fuck else the unit was meant to do other than get drunk and pine about perfect blue eyes and perfect mouths and perfect moans…

While Sergeant Jackson looked slightly unnerved by all the attention and kept trying to engage Murphy in conversation – which was a poor choice because Murphy was examining Jackson as though he was a particularly interesting mushroom that may or may not be poisonous and was neglecting to in any way respond – Sergeant Reyes looked totally indifferent, hunkering down next to her colleague and ingesting her food at a speed which looked unhealthy.

Octavia was staring at Reyes in frank awe, reducing her bread to pieces with her fingers and getting crumbs on Bellamy’s food.

“Are you sure he said Sergeant Reyes? Like Sergeant Raven Reyes?” Bellamy swallowed his potato with difficulty and glared at his sister.

“For the fifth time, O, yes. Sergeant Raven Reyes. I didn’t hear anything else because she wouldn’t shut up about food.”

“Bell,” O had swivelled in her chair and was gripping his arm, hampering his attempt to skewer some strange and unidentifiable meat Monty swore was edible. “Bell, Raven Reyes is a _genius._ Like an _actual genius._ She _built_ the radio. Like, she actually invented it.”

Bellamy grunted; eyes fixed on his food.

“Guess I have her to thank for giving Kane access to breathe down my fucking neck every hour of the day.” But his words belied his curiosity and he found himself glancing up to look at Raven Reyes, the actual genius. She had finished the food on her plate and looked like she was bullying Jackson into giving up his potato. What was an actual genius doing at the Dropship?

A cold draft interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see Clarke entering the mess, closely followed by Harper, who was whispering something into her ear. Bellamy met Clarke’s eyes, and almost felt like he saw the old Clarke, the one he would exchange long suffering glances with whenever either of them had to endure Harper’s feel good nonsense, a rare moment of unity, but her gaze was muted and slow and her eyes slid away from his without any sign that she’d even recognised him. He returned to his food, glancing up every now and then to track Clarke’s progress across the mess.

He didn’t realise Reyes had stiffened until he saw her turn out of the corner of his eye and realised that she was watching Clarke with the same laser focus she’d subjected him to earlier. He felt rage simmer in his gut, wanting to get out of his seat and walk over and snap at her for looking at Clarke like that, like she could handle a glare of that strength in her state, but cowardice kept him rooted to the spot and he looked down at his plate again with shame creeping up his neck. What right did he have to tell Reyes off for looking at Clarke the wrong way when he couldn’t even muster up the courage to say a word to her, to the woman who’d sucked him off last week and in the process had shot to hell his idea of sex, reality, hell even the way the earth spun on its fucking axis. Bellamy didn’t know which way was up and which way was down and was too chickenshit to even say hello to the woman whose existence kept him fucking breathing.

Unsurprisingly, he missed the swift, searching glance that Raven sent his way, the calculating stare she levied at him.

“Bellamy.” Octavia was talking again, and it was necessary to look like he cared. Bellamy hauled himself out of the depths of self-pity and attempted to concentrate.

“Why does Clarke look like she could kill herself or three babies and wouldn’t care which?” He repressed a sigh, knowing where this was going. “Why does she still look like this and why have you not spoken to her this whole day?”

He shrugged.

Octavia snorted.

“Bellamy?”

“Hmmm?”

“Why are you a massive asshole?” 

They congregated in the Med Bay after dinner. He’d made O tell Clarke that Reyes and Jackson had arrived, that he’d be hearing their briefing at 2100, but he had no hope she’d actually show. He stamped up the ramp, Miller in tow, thinking longingly of his bed and wood burner, which would reach optimal temperature in twenty minutes.

The scene that awaited him when he pushed past the flaps momentarily robbed him of movement, and Miller accidentally bumped into him, pushing him forward into what could only be described as a screaming stand-off between Reyes and Clarke. But it was Clarke who pulled the air from his lungs. Clarke whose eyes were snapping, hair flying, voice loud and crystal clear. Cheeks red. Clarke, who looked alive.

“-you understand what I just asked, Sergeant Reyes! I asked you what the hell you were doing in my compound in the middle of off-season with no previous warning of your arrival!” Raven, though not matching Clarke in height, was managing to spit venom from the confines of her chair, and looked as though she’d like nothing better than to tackle Clarke, perhaps landing a punch or three in the process.

“I don’t see why I have to tell you anything, Griffin. From what I can see you’ve got about as much claim to this camp as a damn dog that decides to shit in it!”

After the moment of initial surprise, Bellamy took a step forward and pushed himself between the two shouting women, casting a desperate look at Octavia who was leaning against a stretcher bed with a look of supreme unconcern, examining her fingernails with dramatic passivity. Jackson looked more bored than anything else, but was still observing both Clarke and Reyes with healthy caution, telling Bellamy clearly that he was on his own.

“ _Will_ -you-get-out-the-way-,” Clarke exploded, trying to dodge past him on every word. Bellamy was concentrating very hard on trying to keep Clarke away from Raven _without_ touching her while also concentrating very hard on _not_ noticing the way Clarke glowed, like a fire was lit within her, burning with anger and energy and holy _shit_ he was not getting a fucking boner right now.

“ _Miller_.” He spat his friends name tersely, hoping Miller would get the memo and praying to any god that was listening to have mercy on him and rid him of any fucking feeling below the waist.

Miller joined him, grabbed Clarke’s fists, which were flailing dangerously close to Raven’s face and hauled her to the farthest corner of the med bay, murmuring softly into her ear and shooting Bellamy a meaningful look.

Raven was staring at him, Clarke momentarily forgotten, and Bellamy turned around, thinking of mouldy cheese and the latrines and the rotting squirrel they’d found under the bonnet of one of their engines the other day. One breath, two. He placed his hands on his hips, safely out of the danger zone, and, dignity restored, turned to face Reyes, who looked at him like she had just read his mind, a sly smile ghosting across her face.

“Lieutenant Blake. Are you physically fit enough for this briefing or do you need to take a cold shower?”

He distinctly heard Octavia choke.

Reye’s gaze was cutthroat, and the faint glimmer of sardonic laughter in her tone went straight to his gut. He smouldered, unable to talk for a brief moment while he wrestled with the overwhelming anger he felt for this smartass in a fucking wheelchair.

“You’ll give Lieutenant Griffin a straight answer, Sergeant. What are you doing here?” His voice was even, but he resented the considerable physical effort it took to keep it that way.

Reyes didn’t bother answering, tossing a slight, careless look at Jackson, who stepped forward, pulling a sheaf of papers from his jacket and handing them to Bellamy. His easy, friendly smile was still intact but an underlying steeliness to his gaze reminded Bellamy not to take the soldier at face value.

He leafed through the papers, scanning paragraphs of meaningless military jargon and empty statements. At the end of the report, he found what he was looking for. They’d had their dispatch papers signed by both Commander Kane and Surgeon General Griffin. He looked up, caught Reyes’ eyes. She was watching him shrewdly, arms crossed, almost as though she was waiting for something to click, bracing herself. But when he spoke, she visibly relaxed, and he felt like he’d just missed something incredibly important.

“So you’re here to do an overhaul of our comms system? Why did that need to be co-signed by the Surgeon General?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clarke’s head snap up at the mention of her mother’s name, take half a step towards him before checking herself. Octavia noticed too, shooting an incredulous look between the pair of them, before sighing and pushing off the stretcher bed. She snatched the papers from Bellamy’s hands and passed them to Clarke, visibly rolling her eyes.

Reyes hadn’t missed this, but said nothing, instead turning to Bellamy and indicating her wheelchair.

“I’m a fucking cripple.”

Jackson threw her a pitiful glance, muttered something that sounded like ‘paraplegic’ under his breath but Raven threw him a glare and he subsided.

“They needed the Surgeon General to give me permission to come here.” Her face momentarily shifted from bitter to smug. “I’m damn valuable. I need to be protected.”

Clarke cleared her throat, scepticism clearly obvious.

“Our comms system doesn’t need an overhaul. And why weren’t we informed that you were coming?”

Raven turned, allowed Clarke to receive the full extent of her glare and Bellamy felt his heart begin to race, looking quickly across at his co-leader, sure she’d wither. She raised an eyebrow, crossed her arms and set her feet. He had no idea where she found the energy, considering she’d been moping around camp the whole day. Why was it that Reyes got to see her in all her glory and Bellamy had been treated to an avoidant fucking sob story for the past month? And, he reminded himself, why did he feel entitled to any part of her when he’d spent that month making it perfectly clear he didn’t want her?

Reyes was still glaring and Clarke’s eyebrow remained raised and Bellamy realised that they’d probably stay like this unless he said something.

“Are you planning to answer the question Sergeant Reyes?”

Raven dropped her stare and finally looked at him, smiling sarcastically.

“I imagine that the reason you weren’t informed that we were coming is probably why we need to be here.” She sniffed, adopting an annoyingly patronising expression. “I’ll fix your _broken_ comms system so you won’t ever be ambushed by two incredibly threatening engineers again.”

“This says you’ve got leave of absence until spring. Whatever it is you’re trying to fix, which isn’t goddamn broken in the first place, shouldn’t take you until spring. You built the radio, you’re not going to spend three months repairing ours.” Clarke’s voice was strong, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty, just enough that Bellamy could hear it. He hoped that Reyes would miss it, but she was annoyingly perceptive and tilted her head like a dog that had just caught a scent.

“So my reputation precedes me.” She placed both hands on her wheels, swung herself around so she was facing away from them all, ready to leave.

“Surgeon General Griffin thought it would do me good to be out here, in this fresh air, with all these _very_ nice people. I was interested to meet her daughter. We hear things, you know, down at the Ark.” A sly glance over her shoulder and Bellamy was ready to throttle her. “Just goes to show that what they say isn’t always right, hey, Jackson?”

The other soldier was looking down at his feet, apparently unwilling to get involved.

“God, I expected a fucking mountain cat.” She laughed and pushed herself forward, through the flaps. “You’ve got the claws of a damn kitten.”


	11. Crunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's back and she's still in lockdown.

Crunch.

Clarke stiffened, waiting, hoping not to hear it again.

Crunch.

She sat up, threw her blanket off her legs, suddenly feeling as though she had energy to spare, to rocket out of bed without cataloguing the bones inside her that snapped and groaned with sudden movement. It was as though she’d been plugged into a socket, electricity coursing through her, singeing the ends of her hair and making her skin hum.

He was breathing softly, and she shouldn’t be able to hear it through the tent flaps, nailed down against the chill. She shouldn’t be able to hear the beat of his heart across the distance, but perhaps that was her heart, racing to catch up for lost time.

She turned, looked down at her legs, wondering why they weren’t moving for her. His combat boots wavered into sight, dwarfing her white toes, slicked wet with melting snow. Bellamy stood in front of her, proud, all seven feet of him, black eyes taking strips off her. Her heart was beating through her fingers.

When he took her face in his hands it was as though his skin was made of flame. She could feel her stone lips stuttering to life, breathing as he breathed, branded into existence.

But it was too warm, burning her, and as he bent and pressed his lips against hers, she felt the hot prickle of melting flesh. Smelled the smoke of charred meat. Their teeth scraped; skin fused together.

Clarke screamed, screamed through him, screamed through the mouth that smothered her, the hands that held her down, the black eyes that raked her across burning coal.

And then he was gone, and she could breathe again, and the cold that engulfed his absence poured concrete through her lungs.

“You know you can’t have it all, Clarke.” It was her mother, wearing fatigues, hair swept up and jaw set. She was holding a clipboard, surveyed Clarke across it, slivered eyes calculating and jagged.

Clarke couldn’t speak, robbed of speech or thought, dumb in the face of terror.

“You know you can’t have it all you know you can’t have it all you know you can’t have it all you know you can’t have it all…”

Abby’s mouth wasn’t moving but her voice filled the tent, billowing. Her words snaked down Clarke’s throat and realigned her heartbeat. _You know you can’t have it all you know you can’t have it all you know…_

Clarke couldn’t breathe. She was going to die. She could feel her throat trying to close, trying to force the words out, but they had become a physical force, a column of bone, staking her to the ground. She could vaguely hear the gurgle of saliva at the back of her mouth, or maybe it was blood, pumping from her in hot waves, fluid oozing from a rotting corpse.

_Clarke._

_Clarke._

_CLARKE._

“CLARKE!”

* * *

He thought she was being attacked.

The scream that ripped the air apart sounded inhuman, animal, a shriek that heralded destruction.

Heads went up across the compound, Miller and Octavia tumbling from the wall in their urgency.

Jasper dropped the bucket he’d been carrying to the ward, and the water streamed across the ground, meeting the fire with a hiss.

He was halfway towards her tent when a rumble of steel tore his focus and he saw Raven rolling herself down the med bay ramp, eyes slitted and sharp.

“Was that Griffin?”

Murphy was already at her tent, wrenching the flaps apart and darting inside. Bellamy followed closely behind, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

She was rigid.

He could see every vein on her neck, the shine of sweat matting her hair to her forehead. Her eyes were closed but he could see them flicking underneath her lids.

“Clarke.” Murphy’s voice was low, careful, and he moved towards her as though he was approaching a scared animal. Bellamy started forward, intending to shake her awake, but Murphy’s arm caught him, holding him back with wiry strength.

“Don’t.” He turned back to Clarke, addressing her again softly, as if that could help her. “Clarke.”

Bellamy hissed with frustration, barely holding himself in check, the band of Murphy’s arm pressing into his ribs.

Her mouth was open slightly and as they watched she started to convulse, a terrible choking sound issuing from her throat. Bellamy launched forward, forced complacency forgotten, throwing Murphy off him and nearly falling onto the bed.

“CLARKE!” She jerked, a line appearing on her brow, still choking. He grabbed her arms, starting shaking her.

“ _CLARKE!”_

Her eyes snapped open; pupils blown so wide they were a flat black. There was a second of breath; he could feel her muscles relax under his hands, watched as the veins on her neck flattened. A second of silence and then she seemed to lock onto him, seemed to figure out where she was. He could hear Murphy cursing behind him, tried to say something, anything to help her come back to the world of the living.

But then her face contorted and her chest rose and he had a split-second of warning before her mouth opened and she was screaming. Screaming louder, harder, wilder than anything he’d heard before. Screaming in his face. Screaming at _him._

He was vaguely aware of Murphy grabbing him by the elbows, locking his arms behind his back and dragging him bodily away from Clarke, who was still screaming, screaming and staring at him as though she didn’t know him, as though she was s _cared_ of him.

The tent flaps whipped around his head as Murphy pulled him out, letting go as soon as Bellamy stopped struggling and then diving back inside, calling for Miller.

Bellamy stood, winded, knowing his legs would give out if he tried to take a step. If he tried to step away from her, or towards her. She had him here, trapped.

Miller pushed past him clutching a needle, followed by Octavia, who paused for long enough to throw a wide eyed, bewildered stare at her brother.

And he was left standing by himself, didn’t register when the screams stopped, couldn’t really figure out how to breathe properly. Clarke had screamed at _him_. The dull ache that had been getting worse for the last few months twinged into sharpness, stabbing underneath his ribs and behind his eyes.

“Thought you guys were co-leaders.” He hadn’t heard Raven approaching, hadn’t heard her wheels skid over the uneven ground. He couldn’t find it in himself to reply, dumb with shock.

“Hmmm. That woman really did a number on her.” He turned, feeling as though he was underwater, gazed at Raven while he waited for her words to filter through his head, to make sense.

“What woman?”

She looked at him with a mix of pity and disgust, eyes narrowed.

“Her mother.”

He frowned, trying to figure out what she was talking about, how Griffin had anything to do with Clarke screaming at him as though he was trying to kill her.

He opened his mouth, perhaps trying to say something, perhaps not, perhaps trying to purge himself from the guilt that was coursing through his veins.

Raven spoke again, softly, looking away from him towards the tent.

“It’s not your fault. She’s only doing what she has to do. You’re just stuck in the crossfire.”

She wheeled herself away before he had a chance to ask her what she meant, why she was talking as though she knew things he didn’t. But Bellamy found that he didn’t have the energy to follow her.

“We gave her a sedative. She’s sleeping now.” Octavia walked towards him, arm out, taking his hand in hers and towing him gently away. He could walk if someone pulled him – if someone took his will into their own hands. If it was up to him, he would sleep on the ground in front of her tent.

Octavia walked him into the supply cabin, shut the door and turned to him.

“Bellamy, look at me.” For once she didn’t sound angry, and when he met her gaze, he saw only concern, genuine concern. “Clarke’s sick. She needs rest. She needs to be alone.”

He could hear the words he wanted to say echoing in his head, heard him arguing with her, pointing out that he hadn’t spoken to Clarke in weeks, that he had avoided her like the plague, that this was all his fault precisely _because_ he’d left her alone.

“O…” he put his hands on his hips, shuffled, looked down. She pushed her hands against his shoulders, trying to get him to meet her gaze.

“Bell.” Octavia ducked down slightly, still attempting to catch his eyes. “This isn’t you. Clarke’s been out of it for months. We’re in a warzone! People are like this. It’s just night terrors. Bell, do you hear me? Night terrors.”

“No…I can’t-,” his words jumbled together, dribbling down his chin, and he didn’t really know what he was trying to say. He just knew that Octavia didn’t get it. She didn’t understand that this was him. He did this to Clarke.

“Bellamy, look at me. Look at me.” Her green eyes were wide and urgent and when he finally looked at her, he couldn’t help wishing they were blue. He knew the stabbing in his chest was because he was missing Clarke. Missing them. Missing the days when things were easy, when they could talk and argue and live without layers of razor-sharp tissue paper shredding the space between them. God, he missed her.

Wondered why it was that desire, when it finally came, came with the weight of a thousand stones, with the edge of jagged knives. Why it was that when he touched her, he felt like his skin against hers was cosmic alignment. As though he had been created just to orbit her. And then he ruined it. Gave in to the fear. Left her standing in the snow, mud slicking down her knees, bright scarlet lips and golden hair and those damn eyes. Like an angel of death, calling him closer while loading her gun. 

"Bellamy, where did you go? Hey!" He could hear the irritation in Octavia's voice, knew her sympathy was running out. He appreciated the effort, understood that this wasn't usual for O. He reflect wryly that he must look pretty bad if she was this worried. It was necessary now to convince her that she'd helped. That she'd done her duty and that she'd helped and he was all better. He must now act like his insides hadn't been carved out, act like he was more than an empty shell. He knew that what was going on inside his head couldn't be translated. That all he felt for Clarke was impossible to understand; hell, even he didn't understand it. 

"It's fine. I'm fine, O." He could see her scepticism, but it was almost equally matched with cautious relief. He knew she didn't like seeing him like this. Knew that for all her bravado and fury and studied carelessness she looked to him for stability. Looked to him to be a constant in the storm they lived in. 

"Okay. You're sure?" He nodded, watched with detached envy as her face cleared. Wished it was that easy for him. 

Wished he could be fine.

* * *

Clarke tried to get out of bed the seventh day after she'd screamed in Bellamy's face. She wanted to. Needed to, in fact. She needed to do things. Had people dependent on her. 

She needed to lead. 

But unlike before, when she physically couldn't get out of bed, this time she wasn't allowed to. 

They'd put shifts on her. 

Murphy took mornings, would sip chemically strong coffee and read the bulletin. Octavia would walk in breezily around lunchtime, chatting about some mundane bullshit she could conjure up out of thin air to fill the silence. Miller would spend an hour with her in the evening, helping in his quiet way, to get her back to some sort of function. She hated how eager she was to believe she could go back to how she was. Hated that he knew that, that he walked in with a clipboard and gave her updates on the patients, on the compound, passed on messages from the Ark. Hated that they both knew that she couldn't do it right now. 

Octavia and Miller never mentioned Bellamy. 

She could hear him sometimes, issuing orders through the tent. Could hear him yelling at errant underlings. Heard him lose his shit at Jasper on three separate occasions.

Sometimes, Murphy would grumble about him and she'd be able to glean small pieces of information. How he was more grumpy than he'd been in years. How he still refused to sleep in the cabin and yet spent a good chunk of each morning complaining about the cold. How he'd surpassed his own record and made four of the nurses cry in as many hours. How he looked tired. Murphy was the only one who would talk about him. Clarke knew Octavia and Miller were sensitive enough to avoid the subject of Bellamy Blake.

Murphy didn't give a shit, and she loved him for it. 

Raven wheeled herself in on the seventh day, in between Octavia and Miller's shifts. 

"Kitten really lost it huh."

Clarke narrowed her eyes, sat up straighter in bed. 

"How's our comms system coming along?" She tried to inject some sort of venom into her tone, but Raven just smirked. 

"A lot better than you." She cleared her throat, crossed her arms. 

"It was just night terrors." It was what Octavia said. Clarke didn't believe her, but she had to cling to something. 

But Raven was slowly shaking her head. 

"Nooo, that wasn't night terrors. That was a goddamn psychotic episode."

Clarke snorted derisively. 

"You can't have a psychotic episode while you're sleeping."

Raven hummed, looking maddeningly unconvinced. 

"Can I ask you something?"

Clarke felt her heart thumping. Had someone said something? Had Bellamy said something? She had so many secrets that Raven would exploit.

"What?" She schooled her expression, breathed out gently, tried to hide her panic. 

"You had a doctor stationed here a few years ago."

Clarke frowned, momentarily diverted.

"That's not a question."

Raven glared at her.

"Fine. Here's a question. Why did you castrate Finn Collins?"

The breath whooshed out from her lungs. She felt winded, could hear her heartbeat in her ears. 

" _What?"_

Raven wheeled herself as close as she could get to Clarke's bed, face set in deep lines of anger. 

"Why did you cut his _fucking_ dick off?"

Clarke didn't know what to say, waited desperately for her brain to catch up. 

"Who was he to you?"

Raven looked taken aback, mouth open slightly. 

"Who was he to-he was my...he was my-," she stopped, cleared her throat, and Clarke remembered to breathe. "We were friends."

Clarke studied the other woman's face, tried to find the secrets hiding in her hair. 

"He did something bad."

Raven's attention snapped back to her, face closing again. 

"Something bad? What could possibly be bad enough to do what you did to him?"

Clarke thought of Madi, who she hadn't seen in weeks, who she knew would be safe because she'd taught her how to be. Because it had been her responsibility to keep her safe and she'd failed. So all she could do was teach Madi how to keep herself safe so she'd never be vulnerable to anyone else ever again. 

"I did what I had to do."

Raven's eyes were watery and Clarke knew Collins had been more than a friend. She braced herself for the outrage. Braced herself for the fury. Raven opened her mouth. 

" _Thankyou."_

Clarke felt like she'd missed a step, had tripped, taken a fall.

"Wha-why are you thanking me?"

Raven wouldn't meet her gaze. Her shoulders slumped and Clarke could see her take a breath, two. Then she spoke.

"He was good once. Actually good. We were friends. More than friends. But then," she glanced up suddenly, and Clarke could feel her analysing her face. "He started working at the hospital. Under your mother. He changed. He was a monster, Griffin. A goddamn monster. I didn't recognise him. She did something to him."

Clarke felt numb. She watched in silence as tears started running down Raven's face. 

"I heard what you did. God, we all heard it. She came down to base next day. Tried to get Kane to take you off the force. He wasn't having it. Said you'd sent him a report and he was backing you. She was fucking furious. We could hear her shouting from our basement." 

Clarke felt a small flame start to flicker inside her. She knew. She'd known Collins was a plant - knew what game Abby had been playing. Wasn't surprised something happened just after she'd found so much success with the Grounders, with her plans underway for the ward. She knew she shouldn't have done what she did. But she'd won that round.

And she'd win again. 

Clarke would make the decisions no one else would make. But she'd do them knowing she had backup. Bellamy had signed that report. Staked his whole professional career on it. And Kane had trusted them. 

She looked at Raven, who had trailed off and was still avoiding her gaze. 

"I would do it again." 

When Raven finally raised her head and met her gaze, she could see the conflict raging in the soldier's eyes. 

"I think you would." Raven lifted her chin, face set. "I thank you for it."


	12. Gold

“ _Reyes!_ ”

The radio was crackling. Fucking crackling. Crackling so hard Kane’s voice was swamped.

“Eh-eh….he... _Blake can you hear me_ -“ He could hear the anger in the Commander’s tone, cursed again.

“Reyes get in here _NOW_.”

He heard her swearing before her wheels hit the ramp.

“ _What?_ ”

Jackson held the flaps back and she pushed herself through, radiating with furious energy.

“This damn radio is playing up again, I can’t hear Kane.” Raven rolled her eyes, elbowed Bellamy out of the way to get to the wires.

“We can’t have you out of contact with your husband.” She wrenched a red wire out of the back panel, grabbed the pair of pliers that Jackson handed her. “What would you do all day?”

“ _I heard that, Sergeant-_ ,” Kane’s irritated voice came out of the radio and a flicker of annoyance ran across Reyes face. She glanced up at Bellamy, locked eyes with him as she very deliberately turned the dial off and the crackles cut.

“Reyes, just fix the damn thing.” His temper, so close to the surface these days, was rising rapidly. Stupid thing. Stupid soldier. Her only reason for being here was to fix his comms system which hadn’t been fucking broken before she’d arrived. Ridiculous.

Both of the engineers maintained a careful distance from the rest of the unit, although in typical fashion, Octavia had managed to weasel her way into Reye’s tight circle. Really it wasn’t a circle – just a catalogue of people that wouldn’t receive a curt order to get the fuck out of the way if they dared approach her. Bellamy was not part of that circle and nearly every time he encountered Reyes she had something biting to say. He avoided her if he could help it. But this fucking radio kept dropping in and out and Kane was asking questions. Not about the radio. About Clarke.

She was gradually emerging from her tent. Octavia had taken her out of the compound yesterday, against his orders. He told himself it was because he didn’t want Clarke to have some kind of attack outside of the unit’s jurisdiction, ignored that it was really because when he didn’t know where she was the weight in his chest made it hard to breathe. Miller had been giving him updates, because he sure as shit wasn’t going to go and ask Clarke herself. She hadn’t asked for him and he wasn’t going to approach her unless she wanted him to.

It was a punishment of sorts.

He knew that she would spurn him because he had rejected her countless times now. Micro-aggressions, almost. He had been fully aware, before her psychotic episode or whatever the hell it was, that he had been deliberately shutting her out. Deliberately excluding her. Would laugh harder at Murphy when she was in earshot. Put extra care in staring through her. Because he was trying to tell himself he didn’t need her. Because he was furious that he did.

And it had added up. And she had woken up to him screaming. And she had continued when she saw his face. So no, Bellamy was not going to approach her. Was not going to ask if she was okay. What had begun as a simple, cowardly act of reassurance and self-preservation – reassurance that he didn’t need her, and self-preservation because he did – had ruined her. Ruined any semblance of the friendship they once had.

There was dark water between them now. Hidden depths and sea monsters waiting for one of them to fall in and drown.

Reyes grunted, bringing him back to earth. Her brow was furrowed, sharp eyes darting across the radio, vaguely thumbing an exposed wire. Jackson stepped forward from his station at the door and gently pulled the wire out of reach, shooting Bellamy a long-suffering glance. Raven didn’t notice.

Bellamy supposed he liked Jackson. At least, the soldier hadn’t actively given him a reason to dislike him. He was punctual, courteous, good natured. Had enlisted Monty and Jasper for a game of dominoes the other night. And yet, bizarrely, Bellamy felt more of an affinity with Reyes. With her raw anger, her absolute disinterest in pleasing anyone. She reminded him of Clarke. But more than that, she reminded him of himself.

And he hated her for it. Because if he was honest, the main reason he’d been avoiding her wasn’t because she showed any more antagonism to him than was due, but because she’d been showing Clarke less.

He had assumed that after their raging fight in the med bay the two would become sworn enemies. Had seen Clarke that reactive only with people she had no interest in speaking to. Or him. And at the moment, he reminded himself, that was the same thing. Yet it was Raven who had pushed Clarke out of bed. Raven who had visited a week after Clarke’s breakdown and left the tent with her. Raven who would order Jackson to bring her food to Clarke’s tent at night so they could eat together.

Bellamy didn’t like it. He didn’t trust it, and he didn’t trust her. 

And the fucking radio kept dropping out. And Kane kept asking fucking questions. And Bellamy had no fucking answers.

“There. It’s fixed. Don’t fuck it up this time.” Reye’s accusing tone sent flames up his spine.

“ _I_ didn’t fuck it up, it was perfectly fine before you got here.” He stopped, aware of the whine in his tone, the distaste present in Raven’s eyes.

“Does it get tiring?” She reversed as she spoke, waited for Jackson to grab the handles. “Being this fucking pathetic?”

His eyes met hers, knew this was about more than the radio. Hated that her words hurt him because they were true. And for once, he didn’t speak. For once, he had no reply.

Bellamy watched Reyes leave, missed Jackson’s well-meaning smile, practiced in smoothing over awkward silence, and yet falling flat in this valley of shame.

He shut his eyes and all he could see was blue. Her blue.

* * *

Bellamy waited until Reyes had left Clarke’s tent.

It was past midnight and his only companion at the fire was Murphy, observing his nightly vigil. Even Murphy, whom Bellamy had found grudging respect for over the past four years, was on her side. Even Murphy now looked at him not as a leader, but as a man to be pitied. A man who soaked in shame. A man who caused a woman to wake screaming at him.

Murphy covered his bases. They weren’t close like Bellamy and Miller, but he and Murphy had found common ground in their savagery. Or at least, their controlled savagery. Murphy was predictable, a machine. Would kill and maim and stitch and operate until it was over. And then he would switch off. Clarke never switched off. Clarke regarded every day as a life or death, every choice as a spectrum of extremes. Clarke was a live wire and Murphy was cloaked in rubber. Couldn’t feel. Couldn’t relate. And yet, for all this, he offered some semblance of silent support. Accepted Bellamy’s concern over Clarke as what it was. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t assume things. Or if he did, kept it inside.

When Bellamy had been going out of his mind with worry because she wouldn’t stop fucking swimming in that goddamn river, Murphy had offered to go and fetch her. Accepted that Bellamy wouldn’t, couldn’t. Sure, he had lorded it over Octavia afterwards. But that was what Octavia lacked. The nuance to understand that the mask a person wears is not necessarily their true face. Sometimes Bellamy would wonder at Murphy’s true nature. Accepted it was probably more terrible than he could imagine. He had seen Clarke and Murphy bond through gesture, through unspoken words. Knew more than respect tied them together. They had shared trauma. A trauma that neither would speak about. After meeting Griffin, Bellamy had more of an idea what root had caused Clarke’s. He figured Murphy also had fucked up parents.

He looked up at the stars, the bright night sky, illuminating the dirty snow that Atom had turned over that afternoon. Didn’t they all have fucked up parents? Their world was fucked up. This war was fucked up. He was fucked up. Because all he wanted was in front of him. And yet he had walked away. 

Murphy rose, muttered a short goodnight. Bellamy realised the fire had burned down to embers. It must be early morning. He watched silently as Raven pushed herself out of Clarke’s tent. Waited for her to roll away. Thanked whatever god that was listening that she didn’t notice him, silhouetted against the glowing coals.

_Does it get tiring? Being this fucking pathetic?_

Every day he woke with Clarke’s name on his lips. Woke hating himself for his dreams, dreaming of resting inside her, touching her skin, listening to her sighs, making her scream.

And then he would open his eyes and promise himself that today he would be strong. Today he would do as he had done yesterday and ignore her. For just one more day, he would breathe around the stone ball in his throat. Waited for the self-hatred to settle over his skin, arming him against her eyes, her voice. Arming against those who hated him. Because no one, not even Octavia, could hate him for what he had done to Clarke more than he could. And that in itself was his strength. The only thing holding him together.

He watched her tent. Counted to ten. Counted to ten again. And again.

Why was he contemplating disrupting this balance? What was he doing?

Why was he thinking about diving into the water, knowing that whatever was hiding in the deep would pull him under?

He stood finally. Stayed standing. Watched the moonlight play patterns across the tent flaps. Felt the wind gently chill his hands. He flexed them, rubbed them together. Scratched his neck so hard he almost felt blood. Stamped his feet.

Bellamy knew she would reject him. But he needed her to. Needed her to push him away so he could hate himself honestly. So he could heal. So they could heal.

If she pushed him away like he had done to her, maybe they could find their way back. Find a pathway back to being equal. Equally rejected, equally scorned. Equal.

He took a step forward. Closed his eyes tightly and took three more.

Before, when he had tried this once, he had announced himself. On the hope that she would tell him to fuck off, fearing she would tell him to come in. Hadn’t wanted to be welcomed. Had wanted instead to feel the sweet pain of her fury, wanted her to shame him for his impudence. And she had said nothing. And he had walked away.

This time, he knew he must suppress the desire for an easy fix. He needed to look her in the eyes when she told him to go. Needed for them to both know what was going on. Needed there to be no misunderstanding about how much she hated him. He needed to be brave so she could begin to heal.

He didn’t breathe as he ducked under the awning, pushed the flaps aside.

It was dark. He could hear her, breathing too fast for sleep. He paused, struggling against the barrage of thoughts that told him to turn around and run. He rocked forward on his toes, hand clutching tightly to one of the flaps, physically embodying his warring mind.

“Bellamy?”

It had been so long since he’d heard her say his name. Say his name to him. He’d forgotten the way her soft rasp deepened when she called him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He couldn’t see her, waited for his eyes to adjust.

He grunted an affirmative, couldn’t remember how to speak.

“What are you doing here?” Her tone was too gentle.

All of the times he had imagined this, all of the ways he’d thought of entering her tent without asking, every time he dreamed of meeting her at night – in none had her voice been gentle. His gut twisted in unease. She should be yelling at him. He wanted rejection. Needed it.

“I just-,” this was pathetic. He was pathetic. Just like Reyes had said. Deeply in love with this woman yet too scared to want anything but a firm rebuff. An angry one.

“Bellamy, what are you doing here?” There it was. A touch of steel to her voice. He could feel his soul coming back to his body, slowly, cautiously. He found the path to follow. Needed her angry so he could focus, do this right. Ensure mutual denial.

He felt for the right words, fell into the familiar battleground. Knew what he had to say. His eyes had adjusted now. He could see her, sitting up in bed, a loose t-shirt falling off her shoulder. He would not allow his eyes to rest on the white skin, would not allow his eyes to trace the sharp point of her collarbone, notice the bump where it crested her shoulder, resting like a bone mantle, a protective cage. It looked too fragile. But then, though she looked it, it would be a mistake to think of her as too fragile. She was wiry, a survivor, bred on war, cutthroat. A divine knife.

Her eyes were dark smudges in her pale face. He repressed the rise of disappointment at the lack of light. Her blue would remain hidden tonight, while he asked her to turn him away, and when he would look at her tomorrow, he knew her eyes would rest in slate grey, a reflection of his cowardice.

But he needed to do this. Needed to whip her into a frenzy, needed to call forth the ice queen, push her into the safe savagery he knew best.

“You shouldn’t trust Reyes. I don’t know why you’re letting her get so close to her.” He could see her eyebrows raise incredulously, hoped she’d go for the red flag he was dangling in front of her and not see the lazy barb for what it was; an incentive to fight.

“What?” She was shaking off the last vestiges of confusion now, had accepted he was here, in her tent. She drew her blankets back and let her feet touch the ground. He saw her look at them for a moment, breaking her concentration, saw her glance at his boots with a wary eye. Maybe he should’ve taken them off. She did have a motley collection of carpets on the floor. Too late now. This would be quick anyway.

“I just think it’s naïve of you to think that someone who has so obviously been planted here by your mother is anyone you can trust.” He hadn’t made the connection between Reyes and Griffin before; wasn’t even sure it was accurate – but mentioning her mother to Clarke was like flipping a lit match at a slick of fuel. Sure enough, her eyes flicked up and he could see them burning. Fires lit.

“Excuse me?”

“Did you think I’d just let you torpedo everything we’ve been working towards just because you’re horny for one of her lackeys?” He wasn’t even sure he was speaking English anymore, was grasping at any straw, no matter how short, no matter how tenuous. Hoping she would take the bait and dive into the deep with him. Pull him down under the water. Drown him.

She stood suddenly, took three steps towards him, set her jaw. He breathed out once, twice.

He had her.

“You’re such an idiot.” The contempt in her voice spurred him on. He ignored the jump in his heartbeat, the thrill that shot down his spine. “Honestly, what the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

Bellamy knew this wasn’t healthy. Knew that feeling desire for this woman when she was condemning him, hating him, wasn’t right. But he’d been living in a warzone for four years. Had sawn off arms, legs, killed, maimed. Had fought in a war he had no claim to, no stake in. So what was healthy anymore? What was right?

This was why they couldn’t have a conversation about this. This was why they couldn’t just come clean, why they couldn’t just discuss whatever it was between them like civilised adults. Because they weren’t civilised. They were animals. Shaped, blooded in conflict. And animals were savage. Sliced and tore each other. Fucked and fought in the same breath.

“What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with _you?_ ” He stepped closer to her, closing the gap between them, looking down into her upturned face, screwed up against him. Allowed himself the last moment of proximity he expected from her. “You had a psychotic fucking break and screamed in my face and you think the best person to help you heal from that is someone who takes orders from your mother?”

He tried to ignore the way her chest was rising and falling, the way it was causing the t-shirt to fall further down her arm, exposing more of her shoulder, her upper arm. Her hair was messy, curls cloaked in flat waves, chaos. He wanted nothing more than to sink his fingers in it and pull until she cried. Wanted to know what the nape of her neck looked like as he held her hair in one hand and sank into her from behind.

“Whatever goes on between me and Raven is absolutely none of your concern. You’ve made it _abundantly clear_ you have no interest in how I live my life, I have no idea what the fuck you’re doing here.” She was hissing now, her low voice stretching across the syllables and he shifted, could feel her tone go straight to his dick.

“I was gonna let you go on ruining it, but Kane’s on my back about you and I’m not about to tank my own career just because you’ve decided you’re too fragile to get out of fucking bed.” He could feel the heat of her skin radiating towards him. She was bathed in blue, dusk, pale skin stark against the darkness, eyes wide, pupils blown. She was black and white and grey and yet all the colours of the rainbow couldn’t compare with all the shades of her. He ignored this as he continued to pretend he didn’t care about her, as if he wouldn’t lay down his life to protect her. “I’m done covering your ass.”

She blanched at his mention of Kane, took half a step backwards, looked away from him.

“Look, I just-,” When she looked at him this time, he could see that she was hiding from him. Could see, even in the dark, her veiled eyes. “I just needed some time.”

No, this wasn’t what he wanted. This was looking dangerously close to an apology. He wanted an equal footing, hated to think of her indebted to him, cursed the wrong step he’d taken. Forced himself to descend further, push her further.

“Shut up.”

She narrowed her eyes, caught up in his blatant disrespect.

“You don’t have an excuse. You had one bad dream and you’re pretending that’s what got you into this mess. I know what got you into this mess.”

He swallowed, knew that now was his opportunity. Though her face was closed, he could see the confusion settle in.

“You’re in this because I-,” He paused, sucked in a breath. “Because I walked away.”

Clarke’s eyebrows could not have shot up higher. She exhaled loudly, huffed an empty laugh. He steeled himself.

“You’ve actually lost it Bellamy. This is ridiculous. What kind of egotistic, superiority complex bullshit is this?” She stepped away, turned away from him, hands on hips. He could see her shaking her head. “You think I’ve taken this time because you walked away from me after I went down on you in a forest? Because I let you put your fucking fingers down my throat? How is it my fault you’ve got some fucked up fetishes?”

He flinched. She had narrowed in now, fighting like Clarke Griffin. Fighting dirty, clawing and scratching at any vulnerability. She turned, marched back into his space, slammed her hands against his chest and pushed. He knew the signs, god, too well. Knew she was this close to slapping him across the face. He’d seen her do it before. But usually he’d be grabbing her hands now, fending her off him or dragging her away from someone else. But he wouldn’t do it now. He deserved it. Deserved to be ripped apart by her fury.

“What makes you think you’re that fucking important? We’ve been in this goddamn compound for four goddamn years. You’re _nothing but a distraction_. ”

Here it was. The rejection. He had to slice himself open, let her pull his organs out of his body and stamp them into pulp, crack his chest and break his ribs.

“You are a _cog_. You are a goddamn soldier who qualified to be a medic, _like it’s hard._ You ended up on this service because you couldn’t fucking leave your _sister_ alone. You’re only leading this unit because you did some backhand _bullshit_ with Kane.” She was pushing harder now, shoving him at the end of each sentence, punctuating her anger. Her hair was haloing around her head, eyes snapping. She was wide awake, crackling with energy. Oh, how he missed this.

“You are so _FUCKING FULL OF SHIT!_ ” She was yelling, and he felt each word as if she’d whipped him, held his tongue and let her take her rage out on him. And yet he could still feel her holding back.

“Clarke- “

“Shut up, _shut up_.” She was crying now, so much that her cheeks were wet, eyes screwed against him.

“Clarke,” he caught her wrists, suddenly limp, stepped forward to take her weight. But she struggled, tried to pull out of his grasp. He tightened his grip easily, the back part of his brain, the one connected to his dick, noticing how small her wrists were, how they would fit in one of his hands. “Clarke, just say it. Say it, and all of this will go away. I’ll go away. Everything will go back to how it was.”

This, after all, was the reason he was facing her. The reason he’d burst into her tent at one in the morning, the reason he needed to look her in the eyes. He needed her to say it. Needed her to voice the rejection that he’d been too cowardly to verbalise.

She was looking down, breathing so quickly he could hear it. Swaying towards him as if her legs were about to give way. Her voice was muffled.

“Say what?”

He let her wrists drop, pulled away from her gravity, needed a clear head.

“Tell me you don’t want me. You don’t want this. You say I’m a distraction, that whatever it was that happened between us meant nothing. So say it. Say you want me to walk away. Tell me and I’ll do it. You walk away like I walked away. Just tell me and everything will go back to normal. I promise.”

She lifted her head, tilted it, biting her bottom lip as her eyebrows creased. She was holding back tears, regarding him as though to look at him was to cause her pain.

He felt eager now, knew that the last few months had been leading up to this moment, felt deliverance behind the blade of a knife inches from his heart. All she had to do was drive it in.

But she was shaking her head, tears sliding down her cheeks, slowly, gradually, inevitably. Why was she shaking her head? She was looking at him as though she knew all the secrets of the universe and he knew none, as though he was to be pitied.

She opened her mouth, looked to the ceiling, dragged in a breath like she was trying to breathe underwater.

“Just _say it._ ” He couldn’t conceal his impatience now, didn’t care that she could hear the eagerness in his tone.

She looked at him again, deep hurt in her eyes.

“Why? Why should I?”

He took a step back, momentarily robbed of speech.

“Why should I say that I don’t want you? So you can feel better about not wanting me? So you can tell yourself that we’re the same?” Clarke walked towards him. “We’re not the same.”

“Clarke.” He tried for reasonable, placating. “It doesn’t matter. We just need to figure out how to work with each other, we can’t keep doing what we’re doing. We can’t keep ignoring each other.”

She glared at him, suddenly sharp. “ _You’re_ ignoring me Bellamy. _You_ walked away. _You_ wouldn’t look at me. This is not a ‘we’ problem, this is a ‘you’ problem. We don’t need to figure out how to work with each other, _you_ need to figure out how to work with _me_.”

He bristled, started forward.

“You have not left your fucking bed for two weeks. And that’s only after this fucking dream or whatever. You didn’t acknowledge O’s existence for a month after you found out she’d told me about the Grounders. You were going to fucking drown yourself if I hadn’t told Murphy to go and get you.”

She opened her mouth, tears dried on hot cheeks, but he cut across her, scorned into action.

“You have been a goddamn mess for months. Your mother came here and you turned into a doormat. You’re more of a liability than you’ve ever been before, you’re literally dead fucking weight-” He registered the crack before he felt the pain, blooming like a thousand cuts across his jaw. She flexed her hand a few times and he felt dull satisfaction that it hurt her to hit him. He felt his jaw, felt the heat of her slap.

“How _dare you?_ ” She was in his face, eyes narrowed, voice low and venomous. “How dare you come in here and make this about you, make this about whatever fucking fantasy you’re dreaming about and then insult me when I won’t do what you want me to do?”

“At least I’m trying to find a solution, Griffin. This can’t go on. You know it and I know it.” He was inches from her face, could see her every outline. “Say it. Say it and it will all go away.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Shut her eyes and turned away. Turned in on herself. And then she spoke, but so softly he could hear nothing.

“What?”

She burst out at him, whirled around, a bloom of rustling hair and bladed eyes.

“ _I can’t.”_

Bellamy's brain short-circuited. His sight momentarily whited out. Bleached.

“What- “

“I can’t tell you to walk away. I can’t tell you that’s what I want. I can’t tell you that. I can’t help you with your easy fix. Because it’s not an easy fix. Because I want to kill you but I also-,” he couldn’t help himself, stepped forward, all his carefully laid plans forgotten, his whole world dangling on her next words. “I just.”

She stopped, pulled at her t-shirt, a sob escaping her throat. She wouldn’t look at him. He understood that he must be silent.

“I can’t breathe because all I can think about is the way you looked at me when I had my mouth on you.”

He’d forgotten. Forgotten that her special skill was bluntness, forgotten that she could speak what others would never say. Forgotten, and so he was unprepared. Unprepared for the feeling of blood freezing in his veins. Unprepared for the painful jerk behind his navel, the immediate stiffening of his dick. Unprepared for the way his body would cut feeling below his waist. Unprepared for hearing his heartbeat rush through his ears, thudding a tattoo across his cheekbones.

She was still speaking, and he had to pretend like his world hadn’t just shattered and been reborn in the space of a second.

“I can’t breathe because when I dream about you it’s always you staying, and I know you’ll never stay. I know that. I know that and so no I can’t say it. I can’t say it because it’s not true.”

Clarity. He’d been walking through fog for months. Years. Had nothing driving him. Nothing apart from a flimsy checklist and an order to keep people alive. Nothing apart from a whispered order from his mother and a wayward sister. And now, clarity. Sharp, distinct, solid. His vision settled, brightened. At least for now, for what was right in front of him, for the present, he had clarity. She had given it to him. An unqualified gift.

Honesty, in a place where it was as rare as gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou so so much for the lovely comments they honestly mean so much to me and I'm so glad that you guys are enjoying this!


	13. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the chapter where we finally start earning the explicit rating. thanks for all being so patient lmao our idiots are finally doing the do. also as always consent is sexy folks.

“Take off your clothes.” His voice was too deep. Deep enough that she could fall in and never be able to climb out.

She was hyperventilating. Or close to it. When he’d come into her tent she’d thought she was dreaming again. Had braced herself for the molten lava, for her throat to close over. But he’d brought ice with him. Had been ice.

She’d always associated him with fire. Thought that what connected them was his ability to keep her lit. But she hadn’t realised that it was more than that. He was her balance. She had been ice so he had been fire. And now she’d been burning unchecked, a forest flame. And he had to be ice.

_Say it._

Clarke didn’t know why she had chosen this moment to be honest. Didn’t know why she couldn’t just lie, like she did about everything else. But he was standing in front of her, in his navy fatigues, his boots that should trigger her. Tortured black eyes, hair that had grown longer because this year she hadn’t been there to cut it. And he had stood in front of her like he had answers. Had goaded her.

Bellamy wasn’t Abby, wasn’t as adept at manipulating the human spirit. But he had tried. Bizarrely, she loved him for it. And this was always the way it was going to go. For his sake, she must only have stolen moments with him. To protect him. Which is why it was inconvenient that she had been honest. Because this wasn’t protecting him. This was giving in to her base desires.

But she’d given in when she’d slapped him across the face. Allowed herself a moment of weakness to touch him, even if it was in anger. In fury.

And she’d given in again.

_I can’t breathe because all I can think about is the way you looked when I had my mouth on you._

She could barely see the rise and fall of his chest through the darkness. Could barely move without feeling the wetness collecting between her legs. The heat that had ignited the minute he’d walked into her tent.

And she’d been honest. For once in her life she’d been honest. Maybe whatever god was up there was listening out for her and had decided to give her this one night. And maybe she should take it.

She shivered, relishing the feeling of free falling. He looked at her as though a predator might look at prey. A loving acknowledgement of future consumption.

A future consumption in which she would be the one to be consumed.

His face was shadowed, and he made no move to repeat himself, to get closer to her. It was as if the moment she’d bared her soul he’d realigned. Transformed from the Bellamy she knew, the man juggling a compound, a unit of soldiers, running off fumes mostly, caught between what was right and what was easy. Transformed into someone who could take her if he pleased. Transformed into the man he was by the river.

Transformed into pure desire, without qualification, complication.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her tatty pants, an old uniform that had worn thin enough to qualify for bed. Even in sleep she was tied to this damn place. He didn’t move, and she found herself wondering whether he would repeat himself. Whether he would make her do what he asked. Or demanded.

Her thoughts sent her into a spiral. What was she doing? She knew what would follow from this act. Days, weeks of self-hatred, weeks of feeling rubbed raw, every nerve exposed to the elements, to regret.

“Bellamy…” But he was already in front of her. Had crowded into her, brushed her hands away from her waist and was pushing her pants down anyway. She felt herself swaying towards him. Could feel his fingers on her thighs, hair rising in the wake of his touch. Had he always been this tall? She’d never been this conscious of him before. Felt her nose rub against his t-shirt as his hands trailed across her ass, found the base of her spine and followed it up along her back, lifting her shirt as he went. She couldn’t look at him, burning with shame, humiliation, _lust._

She felt sick, felt ill. If she was a patient she would have diagnosed herself with fever. Incurable, deathly, fatal. How was he doing this to her?

Her harsh breath was the only noise that broke the heavy silence. He wouldn’t speak.

Clarke raised her arms when he brought the shirt to her shoulders, slipped out of it easily. Tried to protect her nakedness by pressing into him, denying him the space that would allow him to see all of her. But he stepped away. Dropped a hand to her shoulder and pushed her away. So he could see her.

All of her.

It was cold. She hadn’t noticed that before. It had been warm when they’d been fighting. Warm enough to be hot, to burn. But now she was robbed of that protection. Knew he was doing it deliberately. Could see in the glitter of his eyes that he wanted her to feel it. Was forcing her to be vulnerable.

Slowly, deliberately, he let his hand travel from her shoulder, let his fingers brush across her chest, feel the way her skin reacted to his touch, the goose bumps that erupted in his wake. He allowed the light scratch of his nails to circle her nipple, rock hard against the air. Clarke felt faint. His eyes were hooded, the only indication that he was facing her naked the slight hitch in his breath as he let his palm take the weight of her breast. He was so gentle it caused her physical pain. She wished he was rough with her, just so that she could feel all she was feeling at once, instead of this torturous teasing, this carefully orchestrated symphony of touch.

Clarke tried to pull at his t-shirt, attempting to push him to go faster, move faster, take her faster, but he pulled away from her as though he’d been burned. She didn’t register the low whine that pulled itself from her throat, didn’t register the way her body moved with his, as though they were tied to the same string.

She swallowed, drew from a reserve of strength she didn’t know she possessed, and finally locked eyes with him. He was already looking at her, jaw set, eyebrows slightly lifted as if to say, _are you going to behave?_

She had no idea how they’d got here. Memory wiped clean. Nothing existed beyond this moment, beyond his dark eyes, beyond his lips that she ached to touch.

She sighed, eyes shutting of their own accord, unable to keep looking at him. She could feel a permanent blush tattooing itself across her cheeks, her chest. He waited a beat, checking that she wasn’t going to move, checking, as she burned in shame, that she had given him control. All that had passed in their shared gaze was an exchange of power.

Hers to him.

He touched her face, carded his fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. Rested his thumb on her bottom lip and tapped once. Her mouth fell open, waiting for him. She was well trained, only had to learn once. Her cunt throbbed at the satisfaction that she could feel pulsing from him, the pride in this shared communion, this evidence of past events.

She hadn’t forgotten, no matter how much she wished she could.

His fingers went to the back of her throat quicker this time, and she closed her mouth around them immediately, letting her tongue follow the contours of his knuckles, eyes open to relish the flare of his nostrils, the deepening of his eyes.

The only indication that she was getting to him.

Bellamy stepped closer to her, withdrew his fingers at the same time that he pulled gently on her hair, forced her to expose her neck to him. Her spit made beautiful patterns over her breast as he dragged his fingers across her skin. But it was when he dropped his mouth to her neck, bared his teeth against her flesh at the same time that he finally pinched her pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger that she whimpered, felt her legs give out. It was all she could do to throw her arms around his shoulders, save herself from falling.

Holding on to the edge of the cliff as the sea tried to claim her.

He pushed her away from him, grabbed her arms and turned her around, walked her to the bed. She was forced to fall face first when it became clear he wasn’t going to stop pushing her or let her arms go. Her knees hit the ground as she buried her face into the blankets.

Clarke was exposed. She’d never been so wet, could feel it against the air slicked on the insides of her thighs. She kept her knees together in the vain hope that he wouldn’t notice, couldn’t ignore the thrill of anticipation that coiled itself deep in her gut. She couldn’t see Bellamy, could barely hear him.

When he finally touched her, it was maddeningly gentle. An exploration. It was dark still; though they’d both adjusted, sight was essentially useless. This only served to send her other senses into overdrive. She was moaning now, had barely stopped as Bellamy firmly spread her open, two fingers tracing her cunt, mapping it out. It was the cursory nature, the preparation that was sending her over the edge. The promise of things to come. He was merely marking the steps now.

She pushed her ass higher into the air, body betraying her want by providing him with easier access, even as she cursed her boldness. He dropped one large hand onto her skin, easily spanning one cheek. Just as she felt like she’d become used to his touch, featherlight and barely there, he pulled away. She whined, missing his fingers.

But she hissed loud enough that it felt like a scream when he pushed two inside her, scissoring with determined skill, spreading her open, dizzy from the sensation of being filled. Clarke felt his breath on her skin, barely realised what that meant before he was laving his tongue across her cunt, licking between his fingers, and up further, in places that she’d never felt explored before.

She bucked, trying to get away from the overwhelming onslaught, only to hiss at the stinging slap he landed on her ass with his other hand.

His hand reached up her back, arm long enough to span her whole torso and touch her hair. He grabbed it, wrapped a few strands in a fist and pulled back, forcing her to arch her back.

“Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy, Bell, Bell-,” she was babbling, incoherent, driven mad by his touch, his mouth. He growled, and it sent shock tremors up her spine. He sounded savage, an animal. She thanked her stars she was already on her knees, because god only knew nothing could have kept her from falling.

Bellamy withdrew his fingers long enough for her to draw breath, feel a scorching emptiness. They breathed together in the darkness, frozen in time, in this bubble. As if they were the only two in world. She closed her eyes for a beat, imagined who she would be if there was no one else to worry about. If it was just her, letting her heart run wild.

Letting it find safe shadows in Bellamy’s arms.

Clarke felt him sit back on his knees and almost whimpered when he let go of her hair and she fell forward, realising how much weight she’d let him carry as she felt the sting of her scalp, a sharp, dull ache that went straight to her cunt. She waited a few seconds, wondered what he was going to do next, but when it became clear he wasn’t moving she turned around, saw him sitting looking at her as though she might destroy him and he would thank her for it.

It was peaceful now, the raging heat seeping from both of them as they stared at each other. Brown into blue. She had not allowed herself to look at him, think of him, clearly see him for months now. Locking eyes with Bellamy was somehow harder than letting him taste her. She had never felt this vulnerable. Never felt this open, weak and yet strong.

This man made her a paradox.

“What?” It was breath rather than speech, a whisper on wind that didn’t exist inside this world.

She couldn’t stop herself from touching him, couldn’t stop herself from letting her fingers trail up his thigh, lightly tap across his hard dick, constrained in his pants. Watched in wide-eyed fascination as his eyes fluttered shut under her touch.

He leaned into her, let his hands encircle her waist and she shuffled awkwardly until she was straddling his lap, his lips resting against her collarbone. It was the closest they’d ever been to gentle since the day at the river when he’d put his arms around her and she’d realised what home could feel like.

“I just…” His words were so soft she could only make out what he was saying through the hum his voice created in her chest. “I want to do-I want to.”

“Want to what?” It was the switch, almost unnoticeable. In this quiet moment, this sphere of vulnerability, she realised it was her who had the power. Her arms rested on his shoulders, hands encircling his head as though cradling a child’s soft skull. He was giving this to her. He knew what she was capable of. Knew she could snap his neck, paralyse him. Had seen her do worse. And yet here he was, offering himself in all his weakness.

Allowing her to see to his soft underbelly and trusting that she wouldn’t rake it open with her claws.

Bellamy leaned away from her slightly so he could catch her eyes and she forgot how to breath when the force of his gaze hit her once again. Brown eyes black in lust, pupils blown wide. She could almost see her reflection, felt wonder at how good it was to exist in his sight. How she had missed this.

“I want to fuck you. But I don’t want to hurt you. But I think I also do.” She couldn’t ignore the tremor that laced its way down her spine, suddenly wondered why she had ever wanted anything but for Bellamy Blake to fuck her so much it hurt. She could feel how wet she was, considered whether she should feel shame for the way she knew she was seeping through his pants.

He was watching her. Calculating, judging, eyes open and searching for any hint of how his words had landed. She found that she couldn’t answer, couldn’t form words. Was overwhelmed with the understanding that this man who she held in her own two hands wanted her enough to destroy her.

She wouldn’t answer him. Knew that having power over Bellamy, power willingly surrendered was a gift he had never given before. And part of her, the part of her that found pleasure in pain, would not allow her mouth to open and set him at ease.

Clarke let her fingertips trace his nose, eyebrows, force his eyes shut. His stubble was rough under her skin, but his lips, when she finally touched them, were so soft she might have thought she wasn’t touching anything had her eyes been closed.

They had both had their mouths on each other, had both tasted desire. But Clarke had never kissed Bellamy. And Bellamy had never kissed Clarke. And when his eyes opened again, and she felt herself falling in, Clarke knew that kissing Bellamy would be crossing a bridge that would collapse once she stepped off.

There would be no return.

But all she was thinking of, as she let her lips touch his, was the painful realisation that to trade everything that she had worked for, to give up the fight she had dedicated her life to, was a small price to pay to kiss the man she loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou so much for all the comments. I know I say this every time I update but they really truly leave such a smile on my face and such a lift - it is an amazing feeling to know that something you create is enjoyed by others!


	14. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that I have absolutely no medical knowledge and I'm doing basically no research so in order to enjoy this chapter you'll have to suspend your disbelief and lean into the idea of creatively writing medicine into reality. Also heads up this gets a bit messy in Clarke's head so I guess TW for PTSD, emotional trauma etc.

It was physical. A physical force. One that ripped through her so brutally she could almost feel that pillar of bone materialise, churning upwards through her throat, staking her.

She was beyond burning, beyond heat.

She was ashes, and yet every nerve was still on fire.

_You know you can’t have it all, Clarke._

She felt the scream build within her, felt it throw itself against her lips, still pressed to his. To Bellamy’s, whose eyes were fluttering closed, hands tightening around her waist.

Bellamy who had no idea of the unholy storm writhing within her, had no idea that it had only taken a split second for her world to implode from within, a cataclysmic nuclear bombing, a decimation.

Bellamy, who had no idea that he was poison. Her poison.

Clarke had no more time to register what was happening, no more time to process.

A second scream was building, and Bellamy was attempting to deepen this kiss, and Clarke had no time to think about how it was possible that they could be so close to each other and yet so far away.

Passing ships in the night headed in the opposite direction – him for harbor and her for the deep. She had the distinct feeling of falling backwards. Yet this free fall didn’t come with expectant shivers.

This time she was free-falling into hell.

Her body took over, launching her away from him with enough strength that he cried out as her fingers, nails raked over his neck, through his hair.

She was already screaming, those same animal screams that had come from deep within her, that sounded nothing like her.

He was standing now, yelling at her, trying to grab her wrists and calm her down. But every time he touched her, she could feel her skin melting, could feel her bones start to shrivel and crack under his heat.

Clarke watched Bellamy from a distance. A distance that was growing as she fell further down and it was as though she was watching him through a telescope, getting smaller and smaller. Clarke realised she didn’t have control anymore. Auto-pilot was taking over. And auto-pilot Clarke didn’t know who Bellamy was.

She only knew him as her biggest threat, her world-ender, bringer of a terror so deep and so urgent that it was robbing her of breath.

Clarke felt the darkness as a physical, oppressive presence, looming above her head, leather bat wings preparing to cloak her in warm, beating, melting flesh.

She could barely make out light flaring into life, the terrified look in Bellamy’s eyes, could hear shouting, screaming.

He was holding her hand. She had a vague realisation that her body was writhing, moving, thrashing.

But he was holding her hand. And it didn’t burn.

It was the only thing she could think as she felt the darkness closing in. Maybe, as long as he held onto her, she wouldn’t fall. He was all she had, dangling over an abyss.

Maybe, as long as she could feel his hand enveloping hers, as long as it didn’t burn, maybe she could hold on, keep the darkness at bay.

Her vision was grey, but she could still see. Knew instinctively that it was because he was there, holding onto her. She could see flickers, knew there were people around, couldn’t tell whether she was screaming or not because she couldn’t hear anything. Her heartbeat was throbbing through her throat, her face, her ears, eyes. But it was there still, she could feel it.

She was still alive, still holding on.

Still holding on to him.

And then there was a sudden burst of noise, a sudden burst of raised voices, shouts, anger. And his hand was ripped from hers.

And Clarke fell.

Into the black. 

* * *

_Six Weeks Earlier_

“You want me to take out Bellamy Blake? _Bellamy Blake?_ ”

Griffin’s expression didn’t change, despite the fact that Raven thought she was raving mad.

“You want me to go to the front, to the Dropship, the most militarily successful med unit in this fucking war and take out Bellamy fucking Blake?”

“Yes.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Griffin’s liquid eyes flashed at Raven’s question, but she said nothing in response. Instead she turned and pulled Raven’s chart from the pocket at the end of the bed.

“The bullet bruised your T7 and T8 vertebrae. I made a permanent adjustment to the…longevity of your T8. I will be able to alleviate some of the pressure that I created that will ensure that your injuries will – with time – heal.”

Raven had never felt as much hatred for another human as she did for Surgeon General Abigail Griffin as the other woman began to detail the level of injury that she had inflicted. Raven knew that Griffin was aware that most of what she was saying was unintelligible to a soldier who had no medical background. Knew and yet still talked to Raven as though she was a surgical fellow.

Because Raven couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t tell what was real and what was fake. Her whole life, her whole career, depended on the whim of someone who was not only speaking an entirely different language, but who also had a vested fucking interest in keeping Raven very much injured.

“What do you want me to do?”

Griffin smugly closed the file and placed it back in its pocket.

“My informant has told me there has been rumours of a…bond that has occurred between Blake and my daughter.”

Raven frowned.

Technically, relationships between officers were discouraged. Though it had never made it to the point of tribunal, if someone pushed it far enough the involved parties could at least expect a unit transfer. Point being, if someone pushed. And as far as Raven knew, that had never happened.

The war was brutal and bloody enough that no one had any energy to spend chastising soldiers for having emergency sex before being shunted to the front lines to die dutifully screaming at the hands of the Kru.

So why was this a problem for Griffin? Everyone knew her relationship with her daughter was beyond frayed, so surely this wasn’t bringing up any maternalistic issues. Besides, Raven was positive that Griffin would have been more comfortable eating human flesh than admit to any motherly instinct for her daughter.

Still.

“Well, if you want him taken out, why don’t you just complain about fraternisation between officers or something? And why do you want him removed anyway? Don’t you want to win this war?”

The split second of silence and the meditative look Griffin threw her way was enough for Raven to realise that the last question wasn’t necessarily an easy answer for Abby Griffin.

Typical. Of course, the most terrifying, evil person Raven had ever had the misfortune to meet might be playing for the other side.

“His relationship with Clarke is of no concern beyond the leverage it provides.”

“Leverage?”

And then it clicked. Raven felt her blood run cold. Realised again how unpleasant it was to be in such close quarters with a psychopath.

Her own daughter.

They’d heard stories. Everyone had.

Clarke Griffin, daughter of the legendary Abigail and Jake Griffin. One a surgeon, an active and vocal proponent for the war effort and the other…well the other had been the loudest dissenting voice this side of the front. But then Jake Griffin died. And his daughter enlisted.

Raven remembered when she’d heard the news. Clarke was basically Ark royalty, and had no reason to get within spitting distance of a soldier. She could have lived her life safely tucked away inside TonDC Station with the rest of the spoiled kids who could lay claim to parents who had several thousand lives of the less fortunate propping them up in their privileged positions.

But she enlisted. And went straight to the front. Went straight to the Dropship.

Rumour had it, Griffin was so angry Clarke had enlisted that she put in a special request for her daughter to be posted at the worst unit on the front. Typical. Griffin was more than happy to conscript everyone else’s kids but chucked a fit when her own volunteered. At the barracks they’d get occasional gossip about how fucked the Dropship was, how the unit was barely keeping it together, suffering attack after attack from the local Grounder tribes. Raven remembered placing bets with her regiment about how long it would last. There had been other med units that had been razed when they had failed for that long to form alliances with their Grounders.

Along the front, fighting the Kru was only possible if you were solid from behind. And you could only count on not getting stabbed in the back if you were stable with your Grounders.

And then the tide started turning. Then Bellamy Blake, star Lieutenant and Kane’s right-hand man, suddenly posted to Dropship. No one could make head or tail over why he’d just throw away his position, his leverage, until they realised his sister was there.

Most of the soldiers respected it.

Raven thought it was pathetic.

After a few months they stopped hearing bad things from the Dropship. And after a few years it was the most respected and established med unit along the front.

And people started talking.

About how savage Clarke Griffin was. About how she terrorised her staff into obedience. About how she killed Kru with her bare hands. About how she took massive risks, how she spoke Trig fluently and fucked Grounders in her spare time.

Raven thought it was bullshit.

But then Finn was posted there…but here Raven shied away from remembering.

Griffin was watching her.

“Yes. Leverage.”

She withdrew a vial of clear liquid from her front pocket. It was tightly sealed with a ring of red around the top and though Raven squinted she couldn’t make out the cramped writing on the label.

“This is a new serum that Professor Wallace and Dr. Tsing have developed. When ingested, in the right conditions, it essentially warps the patient’s reality.” Raven met Griffin’s gaze evenly. She was a head engineer. She knew what kind of fucked shit the Ark High Command had been able to make using the resources they’d taxed from everyone else.

She benefitted from it. Working with new steel torn from a poor farmer’s tractor was better than the shoddy off cuts that was traded for it.

The Ark was bleeding their people dry to win an unwinnable war.

But still.

Warfare using steel, using materials she could see, understand, control was one thing. This, biological warfare. This was something else. Especially because everyone had heard things about Wallace and Tsing. The aim of their Project Cerberus was shadowy and vague.

No one knew what they did. But no one asked, because it was perfectly obvious they had the backing of the High Command and the personal favour of the Surgeon General.

“What do you want me to do with it?”

Griffin let a small, tight smile of triumph slip through her carefully blank expression, evidently pleased that Raven wasn’t putting up more of a fight.

Raven Reyes was many things but she wasn’t an idiot. She knew when she’d lost, when it was time to draw back and recuperate. Give herself space to come at the enemy from a new angle.

“You will go to Unit 513 on the pretence of fixing their comms. My man will make sure that there is sufficient ongoing damage to the radios that your presence will be required for the whole of winter. Additionally, I will include a post script in your papers that suggests outside air will be good for your…injury.” She tucked the vial back into her pocket and crossed her arms.

“I have personally witnessed the connection between Blake and my daughter. I don’t know and I don’t care whether this has developed since I was last at the compound – for your purposes, it is simply important that you focus on a single point of access.”

Raven frowned, already confused.

“For Red to work-,” Griffin tapped her front pocket and Raven gathered that’s what they’d dubbed the serum. “There must be a point of access, a point of terror, from which to alter reality. While on a mass scale we can code the genetic makeup to a point that can be widely accessible to many patients…”

Griffin droned on for a few minutes about dissemination and genomes and other things that Raven neither understood or cared about but she snapped back to attention when Griffin mentioned Clarke.

“I know my daughter well enough to know what truly terrifies her. It’s a simple matter of coding this into the serum so that when she ingests it, she will associate this terror with whatever it is we are aiming to alter. In this case, her relationship with Bellamy Blake.” Raven sucked in a sharp breath. Biological warfare used on a random, if incredibly successful soldier like Bellamy Blake was one thing – and really she didn’t know either of them so it wasn’t as though she was opposed to doping Clarke Griffin.

But what took her breath away was the casual, disinterested, disconnected way that Abby Griffin was talking about essentially turning her own daughter insane.

“But why? Why do you want to alter the reality of their relationship?” Raven half expected Griffin not to respond. It wasn’t as though she needed to. She could just force Raven to act on a skeleton of information and Raven would do it anyway.

Anything to be able to walk again.

But Griffin was regarding her thoughtfully, and Raven had a strong impression that the Surgeon General was going to tell her to demonstrate her own capabilities. Her own mastery of the web. An unspoken message not to fuck with Abigail Griffin. Not that Raven was planning on it, stuck in a bloody hospital bed with no use of her own two legs, but Griffin was covering her bases.

Making absolutely sure that Raven knew, even if she got use of her legs back, even if she could go back to her basement where everything made sense, that she could never fully leave the spider’s web.

“She’s protecting him. Because she relies on him. And as long as she’s got his support she’s covered.”

Raven was appalled. Sure, her parents were never around much. But this was proper sworn enemy for life shit. This was the goddamn antichrist.

“How do you know she’s protecting him?”

“I was there recently. At the Dropship. She’s keeping information from him secret. Telling him half-truths, thinking she can outrun me by keeping him separate.” Griffin’s smile was a horrific cannibalistic grimace. “He thinks she’s insane and she’s keeping it that way so he remains uncorrupted. Sweet, but misplaced. My daughter always cared too much.”

Raven thought of asking Griffin why it was necessary for her to annihilate her own daughter, but Griffin was watching her closely, calculatingly, and Raven didn’t want her name coming up on a hitlist after she’d done this because she knew too much.

“Fine.”

Griffin nodded once, coldly, with finality.

“You’ll need to get under her skin. Make her trust you. Ask her about Finn Collins.”

Raven’s heart juddered to a painful stop as she was once again reminded that she was sitting three feet away from the smartest psychopath she’d ever had the misfortune to meet.

The psychopath was regarding her like a snake who’d just eaten a mouse.

“You know what I did to that boy. You know I turned his brain into something useful, something worthy of combat. I know you don’t see the bigger picture like I do. And, like you guessed, I had to remove you because you were being too loud. But I wasn’t the one who killed Finn Collins. Not even on my orders.”

Raven’s vision was doing funny things. Sparks of light were poking through her brain, making it hard for her to concentrate.

She realised it was because she wasn’t breathing.

“He killed himself. Because of what my daughter did to him. I know she feels guilt. Forgive her and you have a way in.”

_Forgive her._

Like it was easy, like Finn Collins had always existed as a shell with no soul and not lived the first twenty years of his life with those beautiful eyes and that endless heart and the crooked smile that left her breathless every time he looked at her. 

Perhaps it would be easier than she’d thought.

Easier to make Clarke Griffin go insane.

Easier because she’d be looking at the face of Finn Collins’ killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thankyou so much to everyone who comments on this fic it absolutely makes this whole experience such a joyful one and reminds me that what I'm writing is actually being read by real people! sorry not sorry for constantly destroying our OTP's chance of happiness lel.


	15. Slap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas here's the most intense chapter I've ever written. TWs for some hardcore topics - sexual abuse, implied rape, domestic abuse. The light is at the end of the tunnel don't worry our poor babies will smile again.

When Octavia was ten years old, her mother drowned herself in a pool of blood.

Bellamy would not let Octavia touch a knife until he was sure that his sister was alike only to their mother by the shape of her face and the colour of her hair.

Octavia stopped believing in her mother the same day she started believing that Bellamy might be God. Because Bellamy gave her everything Aurora had denied.

Food, comfort. Safety.

Octavia had grown wild in the shadow of her mother’s neglect. Octavia learned how to talk from the men who would come and visit Aurora when the sun went down. Her mother never talked to her, never touched her hair or held her hand. Later, when Bellamy had drunk too much at the passing of an old friend, Octavia learned this was because her father had ruined Aurora. And that while she looked in the mirror and saw Aurora, all Aurora saw was the man who stole her voice and ripped her throat.

Bellamy came for Octavia when she was nine years old.

He was tall, dark, an impossible silhouette in combat boots wearing a scowl only for Aurora.

Octavia knew he was special because when he spoke, her mother answered.

It had been years since Aurora had talked. She didn’t need to make a sound with the men who came to visit her. Octavia had grown up believing that men did not need to hear women speak.

The next morning, Aurora looked at Octavia and told her that this strange man was her brother and that he was going to take her away to live with him. Octavia believed that Bellamy was God because her mother spoke words to her when he was near.

Bellamy taught Octavia how to be human. When she realised that when she talked, he listened, she never wanted to be silent again. She learned how to make friends with other girls her age, learned that people could be your possessions as well as food and blankets. She was fiercely loyal only because she understood that was how people stayed by your side.

Bellamy was Bellamy.

Now that Octavia was an adult, she knew he wasn’t God, he was just an exceptional man. One with flaws, and one who had spent years trying to scrub away the damage her mother had done to her so excessively that sometimes his scrubbing would bruise. But he wasn’t someone who could hurt other people. Not someone that could commit the crimes people would talk about in hushed whispers.

Not someone who people avoided calling by name.

So when she heard someone screaming in the dead of night, screaming as though they were dying, she didn’t think Bellamy would be in anyway connected. Even when heads went up throughout the cabin and Miller dropped from his bunk and scrambled for the door and she realised she had heard those screams before she didn’t think of Bellamy. Miller had connected the dots faster than anyone else and was heading for the Med Bay, shouting over his shoulder that he was going to grab a tranquiliser.

She heard the dull roll of Raven’s wheels down the platforms from the spare ward where she’d been sleeping and when Jasper, who was on watch, flicked the floodlights on and the whole camp lit up Octavia felt like life was frozen.

A photograph of things before, because the screaming was just getting worse and she could feel cold dread seep up from the ground and close its fist around her heart and she knew that things were about to change.

* * *

_‘They found his body. In a river up north near the front.’ Raven looked blankly at Jackson, vaguely aware that Sterling had stood up behind her, had his hands on her shoulders._

_She could hear a faint roaring, started to look around for the source before she realised it was coming from her head._

_She moaned._

_A low, soft, guttural moan, dredged up from the deep recesses of her gut, collected from the corners of her chest where her shredded heart had crawled after he’d left her._

_Jackson’s mouth was moving but his words didn’t make any sense and Raven felt like throwing something at him, felt the chaos that hungered at the edges of her mind start to bite through the strings that were keeping her tied to reality._

_She was feral in grief._

_When she came to, and the mists rolled back enough for her to comprehend her surroundings, she registered with no real surprise the mess of her workshop._

_The latest development of the cross-continental radio lay in pieces, her favourite hammer disconnected from its handle from the force she had used to fling it across the room._

_Jackson was nursing a nasty cut by his eye, caused no doubt from the shattered glass of the fan cover. Sterling was talking over her snarls, used to her rages, had her arms firmly pinned behind her back._

_She considered kicking him, remembered the time she’d nearly kneecapped a supervisor who wasn’t Sterling who’d tried this shit on her._

_Finn used to laugh when she got suspended from work. Used to hang up her fines on the wall, make confetti from her write-ups._

_Finn._

_She didn’t fight the tranq that they hit her with. Knew they’d make sure she’d wake up in her own bed. Surrounded by signs of him._

_Sometimes if she rolled over at just the right angle, eyes shuttered against the oncoming dawn, she could pretend he was still there, lying next to her._

_Dark hair mussed around his head, mouth slightly open. Lashes painting a shadow that marched slowly down the translucent violet skin under his closed eyes._

_S_ _ometimes she reached out, her consciousness still gullible enough to believe her dreams, expected, hoped to feel the smooth warmth of his honey skin, the feathery down coating his arms, the rough pads of his fingers._

_And then she would wake, and remember the look on his face when he left her, the things he said, did._

_She could feel the oncoming darkness, noticed the fuzziness in her vision. Bargained with God, swore that she would take the screaming, the snarls, the tears._

_Raven closed her eyes and hoped that when she woke, she might once again feel the crunch of her jaw under his fist._

_She would give up all the bones in her body as long as the man who broke them would be alive to wake up next to her in the dusky morning light._

* * *

Octavia wasn’t breathing.

She couldn’t breathe, lungs collapsed. Crushed.

He was standing over her as she writhed, thrashed, her pale skin luminous under the flare that Miller had lit. She looked ethereal, otherworldly. Possessed.

Her golden hair was haloed around her head, eyes open, staring, sightless. He was holding her hand and Octavia didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know what to think of the desperation in her brother’s face, the utter devastation that she could read across his body. He stood, defeated, and yet she didn’t know what to think.

She couldn’t breathe.

They were frozen. Her, Miller, Murphy. Bellamy stood, spared them a single, urgent glance before his concentration snapped back to Clarke.

Clarke who was stark naked, held by a fully clothed Bellamy.

Murphy was swearing, voice raised and fury evident in every line of his tongue.

Octavia was six again, walking in on her mother and one of the men who’d overstayed his welcome. Six years old and watching her mother placate, strip, beg.

Six and knowing exactly what a closed door meant.

She couldn’t breathe.

Clarke was collapsing, her legs melting beneath her, crumbling.

Octavia winced as she saw her ankles roll, saw the way her back arched in a way it wasn’t meant to go. Bellamy tried to reach for more of her, tried to collect all of her pieces, but Murphy was pulling him away. Murphy at least had made up his mind. Octavia knew that from the hard lines in his face, the way his knuckles shone brightly under the flare.

Miller was starting forward, flare held aloft, needle in one hand. She was still trying to scream but she’d ripped her voice raw, couldn’t make a sound, and she fell backwards, Bellamy’s hand the only thing keeping her from dropping to the floor, skin stretched.

For a moment, the tent was silent. A grotesque tableaux.

Octavia, frozen by the door, trying to remember to breathe, trying not to remember her mother. Miller advancing on Clarke, Murphy holding Bellamy back now. Bellamy who wasn’t struggling, except to extend his right arm, keep his hand in hers.

And then the flaps were ripped open and Raven rolled in, pushed by Jackson and she was yelling and pointing fingers and then Murphy was raising his voice and starting forward and Octavia couldn’t hear anything because Bellamy was looking at her and she knew what he was thinking because she was thinking it too. And she couldn’t answer the prayer in his eyes, because when Octavia was four years old she learned what men wanted and when she was nine she met God and now she was twenty five and maybe she was wondering if God was a man that wanted.

She didn’t realise that she was walking, that she’d made up her mind, until she’d reached Clarke, now nearly lying on the floor, held up by Bellamy’s hand. Didn’t think about the prayer she was letting go unanswered. Octavia was eight years old, holding hands with her mother and feeling the way Aurora’s fingers would flex and flinch when they walked past a man on their way home.

She wouldn’t acknowledge her brother, didn’t look at him as she grabbed his wrist and pulled until he was forced to let go. Forced to let go of Clarke. Octavia grabbed her wrist, pulled her up. Miller withdrew, tranq administered. Raven was still yelling, face screwed up.

And Bellamy was a shell. Black eyes in a paper face.

And Octavia didn’t look back.

* * *

_The first time he hit her, Raven asked for it._

_He had her lying across the bench in her workshop, had come to bully her into eating lunch._

_The uneaten sandwich was on the floor, along with the blueprints for a new device she was working on. One that would allow people to communicate without connecting to a power source. She’d been trying to explain it to him when he’d pressed his lips against her neck and she’d swallowed a flash of irritation at his disregard, jogged her body into desire._

_He’d pulled her pants down so roughly the fly popped but the press of his tongue inside her soothed her anger, the way he beckoned her closer to the edge, fingers buried deep._

_She pressed her hands over his head, sifted through his hair, loved the way it felt like water._

_And she’d asked him to._

_‘Hit me, hit me-,’ she had almost expected him to hesitate, act like the suggestion offended his delicate sensibilities, but he’d grabbed her chin before she finished speaking, timed his next stroke to the stinging slap he gave her, taking her breath away._

_She’d screamed her way into orgasm, and they didn’t talk about it for weeks._

_And then it became common when they fucked. He figured out what it did to her._

_He got the promotion. Started coming home with stories about the Surgeon General, how he thought he might be getting somewhere with her. Could be looking at a pay rise, even._

_She wanted to believe he changed because of Abigail Griffin. Clinically, at least. But the seed had already been planted._

_They were fighting. Raw, heated. Getting in each others faces and screaming. He would leave her in six months but she didn’t know it then. And then he hit her. So hard that she lost her hearing on her right side for three days. And she hadn’t said no when he’d turned her around, had unbuckled her own belt, moaned when he entered her. So what if he hit her just before sex, it didn’t mean anything._

_She was just out of hospital when he left her._

_Swollen face and broken heart. Jaw full of pins and ward full of disapproving doctors and sympathetic nurses and no one who understood._

_Jackson relayed the message from Sterling, who refused to speak to her until she left Finn._

_She never told Sterling the truth. Never told him that she wasn’t going anywhere. That she would have stayed. Forever._

_Knew that the poison was already deep in his veins. Knew he was more soldier than human. Knew that whatever Griffin was doing to him was corrosive. Taking him over, bit by bit._

_But Raven felt alive when he shouted at her._

_Felt like all the broken pieces inside her vibrated together for the instant that the one she loved caused her pain. She knew that it made their bond closer. Made them connected on a different level. He was the source of great love and great pain._

_Her greatest symmetry._

_And his smile took her breath away just as much as his fist. And he bought her pancakes in bed the day she got discharged. Rubbed oil across her skin when he broke it._

_Because he loved her. And she loved him._

_She told Sterling that she’d left him. Nodded when Sterling told her that Finn Collins was a criminal, that he was proud of her. And Jackson sat in the corner, bending over his work, knowing that he couldn’t lie but that she might gut him if he told the truth. The truth that Finn Collins had made her pancakes and then walked out of her life._

_‘I’ve got posted to the Dropship.’ Eyes shining with nationalistic fervour. ‘I’m going to work with Clarke Griffin. I’m going to be better than her. The Surgeon General says I’ve got what it takes. I’m going to take it over. I’m going to run that unit better than she ever has.’_

_A glance in her direction, careless._

_‘It’s over, Ray. You know it’s best for both of us.’ And the worst part is that she knew he was talking about his career, his life. Knew it had nothing to do with her broken jaw, the scars he had underneath his shirt from the many times she’d clawed at him too hard, knowing what she was doing._

_So at least she could tell Sterling with perfect honesty that they weren’t right for each other. That they’d grown apart._

_Because she knew they disagreed on a fundamental foundation._

_The difference between them was that she knew it was wrong. Knew she was hurting herself. Knew what she was punishing herself for. But Finn thought it was right. Thought that everything was as it should be. Griffin had turned his morality into elastic, broken his compass and beaten the man she knew into someone who broke her bones and thought it made sense._

_And maybe in her heart of hearts she wished for his death. Because he was never going to get better._

_But she loved him too much to hate him for it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys really truly made my Christmas and whole year with the amazing reception on that last chapter thankyou so much! As always, it means a crazy lot to me that people take the time to read my work and comment on it and I read every single one and walk around with a happy little warm glow so thankyou thankyou thankyou!


	16. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not me trying to write anything in trig (many apologies for creative interpretations that are probably incorrect let's just all pretend we know what's happening)

Bellamy couldn’t sleep.

Every time he shut his eyes he saw Octavia’s face. His mother’s, etched so delicately into hers. Their expressions were identical. He wondered what he had done in a past life to be so haunted by the way their eyes followed him. He knew what he’d done in this life.

The day after it happened, he left the compound. Took a small party of the most junior guards, who didn’t know enough about anything to look at him with those eyes. He tried convincing Miller that it was because they needed to check on the Grounders camps, make sure they hadn’t broken ground under cover of snow, deliver care packages, but both of them knew it was a flimsy excuse, and not a mission that someone of Bellamy’s seniority usually dealt with.

Miller had looked at him with those eyes and Bellamy wanted to slit his wrists.

“She’ll get better.” Nate had an annoying habit of mind-reading.

But Bellamy didn’t want reassurance, especially when it felt wrong. He wanted pain.

“I didn’t ask.” He was aware he was snarling at his best friend. Couldn’t bring himself to care.

“No one is blaming you.”

He felt like throwing up.

“They should, Nate.” Miller had stamped his feet, cleared his throat, looked up at him. Blew out a breath that crystalized in the icy morning light.

“I know you. I know who you are and what you’re capable of. I know what kind of person you are. You got me here Bellamy. You saved my life.” Bellamy made a show of checking his gun. Couldn’t stand Miller’s empathy. The man was a walking hazard.

Stayed too close to the fucking sun.

“What if I did? What if I did do that to her?”

They were standing close enough that Bellamy could feel Miller’s warmth. Felt for a second like allowing the other man to take his weight. Felt for a second that to feel another human’s touch, one that didn’t come laced with hidden sting, might just pull him back from the edge.

He stepped back. He deserved to fall.

Miller’s head was tilted, dark eyes glittering.

“But you didn’t, Bellamy.”

“How can you be sure?”

Miller closed the space between them, like he knew, and grasped Bellamy’s shoulders.

“Because I live my life in faith. Faith in the people around me. I can’t live in faith and not be sure of where I’m putting it. I have to trust my gut. My faith led me to you, Bellamy. It won’t fail me.”

It’s not like he wanted a more concrete answer. But maybe he did.

Maybe he wanted Miller to provide him with a character reference. Or a list of hard facts he could tattoo across his hand and recite when he looked in a mirror and saw scum. Bellamy had met too many people who survived by eating each other to have faith in anyone. The one person he had faith in he had managed to destroy.

_I don’t want to hurt you. But I also do._

Last night he dreamt that he was holding her heart in his hand. Crushing it slowly between his fingers and watching the blood seep down his wrist. He could feel it beating against his palm. Fluttering like a caged bird until he squeezed too hard and it stopped. Her screams stopped.

“I don’t know how long I’m going to be gone for,” he stopped, considered, knew that it was unfair to let Miller and Octavia shoulder the burden of the compound. “It won’t be longer than a week. Look after her.”

He turned away before Miller could convince him to stay, called to Riley, told him to move his fucking ass. Jogged out of the gates and allowed his party to cover him from prying eyes.

Coward.

They reached the first Grounder camp at sunset. Bellamy had decided early on that it would be wise to keep a rough outline of where the camps were throughout the year, but a lot of the tribes morphed and changed as alliances within the Tribes shifted. Though the Ark soldiers were under strict instructions to leave the Grounders camps alone unless provoked, the Kru didn’t appear to have the same attitude toward civilian casualties. The Grounders often attacked the Ark frontline units in an effort to appease the Kru, or in response to blackmail.

Consequently, when they went on scouting missions, more often than not he’d find remnants of a Grounder camp, burnt out and broken, or abandoned in a fit of panic.

This camp looked fairly well established, but Bellamy didn’t recognise the symbols etched into a wooden pole at the entrance, and though the snow covered all manner of sins, he could see scorch marks against several of the bigger cabins.

It looked as though this tribe had moved into a camp that had been abandoned since the last time he’d come out at the end of fall. It was dangerous to move in the dead of winter. He frowned, wondering why this tribe would risk such a perilous move - especially one that took them so close to the Dropship. Usually, he found that the Kru targeted the Grounders camps closest to the Ark's frontline units in an effort to motivate attacks. 

The new inhabitants watched warily as Bellamy entered through the gates, flanked by Riley and Atom. The rest of his guard were spread out in the tree cover, checking for signs that the Grounders might be planning an attack on the Dropship under cover of snow.

Their leader and her second came out to meet them, an older woman with cropped black hair and sharp eyes, crowned by an impressive tattoo that wound its way down her cheekbone, and a younger one, as yet untouched by ink, who was scowling at Bellamy so intently he could feel the heat. They obviously had had interactions with Ark soldiers before, and they displayed no surprise as Bellamy walked towards them.

“What you want Arkkru?” The older woman spoke, voice tight and hostile.

Bellamy stepped forward, clicked at Riley, who held out the care package. The Grounders bore the brunt of the winter diseases, and often lost nearly a quarter of their tribes to common colds and flus. The package had all the best remedies that Clarke had put together before she’d lost it. It had been her idea, originally. It’d been why she’d been packing bandages in baskets the day he told her that she scared people and he lost her forever.

The second stepped forward and grabbed it. Years ago, Clarke had communicated with the other units along the frontline, many of them recognising that care packages were the easiest way to maintain peace during winter, when the Ark med units were most vulnerable. The grounders didn’t like the med units, but they weren’t stupid. These packages were sometimes the difference between life and death during the long winter months. 

The two parties eyed each other for a beat longer, and Bellamy was about to turn away and leave, now that he’d had ample time to let his concealed soldiers scout the area, but the leader started speaking, and he stopped.

“Where Wanheda?”

They called her that. Commander of Death. Because she’d presided over so many terminal patients, so many grounders that had been dumped on her doorstep because she’d gained a reputation for fixing things the grounder healers couldn’t.

Sometimes she lost them, because the injuries were so catastrophic that no one could heal them, and sometimes she managed to entice them back from death’s door by a mixture of sheer willpower and bull-headed stubbornness.

He missed the days where he’d find her sleeping propped against the med bay and they’d have fights about how much time she was investing in fixing their enemies.

They had seemed so important then, those fights. Every argument felt monumental.

But they’d both been whole, or at least as much as they could be in a warzone. Both equal. Both committed.

Not shells that crumbled at the slightest touch because there was nothing inside anymore.

Bellamy was surprised this grounder knew of her. He figured that Clarke might have made contact with her in a previous winter – but it was also possible that her reputation preceded her.

“She’s sick.” Riley spoke quickly, as if fearing reprimand, which he swiftly received when Bellamy shot him a low glare that promised ugly things.

The leader’s brows drew together, and if Bellamy didn’t know better, he would’ve classified her expression as that of consternation.

They drew back, the two women whispering urgently amongst themselves.

Bellamy blew out a breath and chanced a look at the sky. He didn’t want to talk about Clarke. Didn’t want the rumours to spread that she was not fighting fit. Half the time he felt like the only reason the Dropship didn’t get overrun and end up the way of so many other front-line units was because of Clarke.

If they got wind that she wasn’t in charge he didn’t give the unit thirty days before they’d face their first attack.

He turned again and whispered threats at Riley, who looked both defiant and strangely resigned.

But when he turned back, he nearly lost his breath.

The grounder leader had unwrapped the package and carefully selected the most valuable of all the remedies, the bottle of painkillers that Bellamy knew for all their hostility the tribes hoarded throughout the year.

“You take to her. Make her well.” Bellamy frowned, caught between the unexpected gesture of kindness and wondering again when Clarke had made the acquaintance of this leader.

Surely she would have said if she knew a grounder well enough that they’d risk illness to save her. But then, maybe not. He knew she kept things from him. Ignored it mostly, hating the space she actively maintained between them. Hated that he was the reason for it.

He looked more closely at the inhabitants of the camp, most of whom were still watching stonily. Underneath their tattoos and paint, he realised they were all women. That was definitely unusual. All grounders fought, ferociously, but they usually had small garrisons made almost entirely of men to protect their tribes.

Bellamy had never seen a grounder camp of all women before.

He looked down again at the bottle the leader was holding out to him, thought quickly through his small amount of Trig.

“Hanch taim yu don get em klin Clarke?”

The leader looked at him sharply, then her eyes slid to Atom and Riley, both of whom she could see knew no Trig. She was clever, instantly understanding that what Bellamy was asking, he was asking privately.

“Thri yirom.” _Three years._

How had this grounder known Clarke for three years? Bellamy felt his stomach drop, the confirmation of Clarke’s concealment burning its way down his throat.

The leader again pushed the bottle towards him, but he held out his hands gently and showed he would not accept. She frowned, ferociously, spat something at him in Trig that was too fast for him to understand.

He noticed a small group of grounders had started gathering behind their leaders. Atom shifted uneasily behind him. They were outnumbered, and he knew they were overstaying their welcome. But he was too curious, too angry to leave. Needed to know more about this other half of Clarke, the one she had hidden from him.

“No..laksen-,” he broke off, trying to figure out how to communicate that Clarke’s sickness couldn’t be healed by simple painkillers. “Clarke laksen raun melon.”

_Clarke is hurt around her head._

The leader looked even more alarmed, her second breaking her glare to whisper urgently in her ear.

“Wak op?”

Bellamy didn’t know why he was telling so much to this Grounder. He needed to shield their vulnerability. But he could read genuine distress and concern in the older woman’s eyes, and as he looked behind her, saw that the other grounders weren’t standing near their leader to provide strength for an attack, but to hear what was being said.

He shook his head.

“No wak op.” How much easier would it be if she’d only suffered a simple blow to the head. He could’ve fixed that.

“Feisbona?” Bellamy shook his head again, confused. He had no idea what that meant. But the leader was already scrabbling around in the box, then finally held out the dried wolfsbane. Poison.

He’d fought her on that. One of the many times they’d argued when he thought she’d taken leave of her senses.

“Why the hell would you give our enemies poison? To make it easier to kill us?” Clarke had rolled her eyes, but when she finally looked at him he felt like he could see pity lurking at the edge of her gaze.

“No, Bellamy. Wolfsbane slows down the heart-,” He’d snorted, hands on hips.

“Yeah, because it’s fucking poisonous. And you’re not even wearing gloves! You’re not meant to touch that stuff without protection, Clarke, for God’s sake.”

She’d slammed her hands down on the table, the jars of wolfsbane clattering in their crate.

“I can’t fix all of their injuries, and the Kru won't stop attacking them. You don’t think mothers might prefer that their daughters die before the Kru takes them? Or maybe that instead of dying from a thousand cuts, you might like your heart to stop first?”

He’d blinked at her slowly, refusing for a moment to understand what she was saying.

“Clarke…” She’d turned back to her work, conversation over, and he hated that he had been dismissed for believing the best in humanity.

Hadn’t realised then that it wasn’t belief, but blindness.

Clarke had always walked with her eyes open, witnessed all of the terrors he could never imagine because he always kept his eyes shut and called it faith.

“The Grounders aren’t here to kill us, Bellamy. They aren’t our enemy. The Kru is, and the Grounders are just stuck between two-,” He remembered her breaking off, glancing towards him but avoiding his eyes. “Equally appalling sides.”

He’d bristled, natural allegiance to Kane, if not to his army, motivating his irritation.

“Clarke, I know you don’t see eye to eye with Kane, with his mission, but we are _not_ the same as the Kru. And I know that you want to have them on our side, but the facts are not going to change. The Grounders submit to the Kru. They don’t need-,” he’d gestured to the wolfsbane she was still portioning, ignoring him. “ _Protection,_ if that’s what you’re calling it.”

She wouldn’t look at him, the set of her shoulders telling him she was done talking to him.

“Bellamy, think about what submission means. And what it costs.”

He came back to the present, her voice echoing in his ears.

At the time, he hadn’t thought much about the double meaning of her words, horrified enough by the implication that mothers would rather kill their daughters than have them enslaved under the Kru.

But he knew now, looking back, that Clarke was referring to more than just the Grounders.

He knew what submission cost. Her submission.

He shook his head again at the Grounder leader, turning it over in his mind, knew poison wasn’t the solution. There was no poison he knew of that would alter someone’s personality. He reflected darkly that the only poison capable of doing that was the one he gave. The submission he craved.

The grounder leader stepped forward, and he could feel Atom and Riley tense behind him.

“You fix Wanheda. You protect Wanheda.”

He frowned, didn’t know how to tell this woman that he was the reason Clarke was broken. That he had to stay away, if she had any chance. Didn’t know how to tell her that his greed, his rejection, his lust, had destroyed the woman he loved.

They didn’t stay much longer, dusk enveloping the camp and making it harder to see potential threats. The leader was clearly eager to get back inside her gates before the sun set completely, and Bellamy knew enough to see the years of cold experience in her eyes. This was a woman who survived because she had seen others die.

As Atom and Riley traipsed away towards the trees, Bellamy turned back. He’d lectured the unit time and time again on never revealing personal information to the grounders, paranoid of any weak link that could be exploited or sold to the Kru, but something about this woman’s response to Clarke had made him weak.

“Ai laik Bellamy kom Arkkru.” The leader regarded him for what felt like an age, sharp eyes upraising and deep.

“Ai laik Indra Heda kom Trigeda.” She held out her hand, and he clasped her forearm, feeling her thick muscles corded underneath her leather straps. He nodded at her, broke their grasp and turned to go, feeling jittery and fragile.

“Wait.”

A girl’s voice this time, thin. He knew it from somewhere.

“Belomi fisa!” Madi was running towards him, dark hair streaming behind her, hood of her woollen cloak thrown back. Indra made no move to restrain her, held out a hand to stop her second from going after her.

_She’s got no home._

He’d assumed that Clarke wouldn’t meet his eyes because she thought he would argue with her. But she’d looked away because she was lying.

_I found her a place. With a trader._

Three years.

He remembered Octavia’s words when Griffin had been at the unit.

_You gotta realise that we’re not all alone out here. We serve the Ark. We act against them and it’s all our necks on the line._

Clarke, blue eyes grey as flint, the morning by the river, before she’d asked him whether he’d choke her and his world realigned.

_There are some things you don’t need to know, Bellamy._

He looked up sharply at Indra, her face closed, eyes shuttered.

_I have never lied to you._

How did Clarke know Indra well enough to trust her with Madi? Why had Indra taken over this camp, so close to the unit, with no men in sight to protect them from danger?

_I have never lied to you._

What had happened three years ago that would have led either of them to each other?

Three years.

Remembered the words that had started it all, when he accused her of insanity, when he told her that she scared people and she told him to leave.

_After you went to Mount Weather you stopped following them, you stopped listening to them._

Mount Weather.

Madi collided with him at the same time he felt realisation slam through his mind with the force of a truck. He stumbled, nearly toppling, arms automatically going around the girl to stop her going over with him.

She was talking a mile a minute but he wasn’t listening, eyes locked with Indra’s. She opened her mouth, spoke a soft word in Trig and Madi quietened immediately, big eyes switching between Bellamy and Indra with almost comical speed.

“You tell Wanheda. We are ready. Jus drein jus daun.”

Blood must have blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have absolutely blown me away with your support I seriously cannot thank everyone who comments and leaves kudos on this fic enough. I never in a million years would have thought that people would enjoy reading what I wrote so it seriously means so so much. The comments are so supportive and generous and lovely I don't have enough words! Thank you so much.


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